February

Writing it out

A short one for this short day in a (blessedly) short month. From time to time I write about my own life, and hope that it helps or resonates or touches. Also, I’m okay, I promise.

I should know it by now. The quiet din of late long winter. The grey, the nothing of February. The longest shortest month. Every year it ambushes me, punches me into the soft of my bed and leaves me there gasping, for air, for desire, for anything.

I should replace all instances of “February” in all future calendars with the word “Depression.” Depression the 2nd, when the rodent pops out of his hole to tell us whether he’s gonna go back down there and take another Xanax or make a go of it. Depression the 14th: alternating tears and lassitude, but with paper hearts. Leap year means every four times we get bonus depression. The celebrations of this fact are necessarily lackluster.

Every year it’s this way: I wake up one morning and can’t stand anything. Whatever work I’m meant to do, food I’m meant to eat, people I’m meant to talk to, activities I’m meant to enjoy. Nothing is as meant; everything points back to bed. The world is a grey horror and the best place to be is unconscious.

I march myself to a doctor’s office, through the nutritionist’s, over to psych, out through the bloodwork to check thyroid, vitamin D, B-12, iron. I try shining bright light in my eyes, eating only vegan food and herbs or only meat and vegetables. I stare out the window at the grey street I ought to be walking down for exercise.

I pull my robe belt tighter.

None of it’s a mystery: I have my father’s illness, the thing I’m sure killed him at last, no matter the condition of his heart. Depression the 15th, halfway through. I go on Adderall for a while to get through workdays. I try Wellbutrin but it makes me feel simultaneously like I’m crawling out of my skin and like I’m falling asleep standing up.

My father died from falling asleep standing up. His paper heart gave out at the far end of the year: November, the month of my birth. The stretch from Election Day to March 1 a hollow tube pulled thinner and thinner until nothing can get through.

Today I try everything I can. Little pleasures, small forgivenesses help. Granola, at last, for late breakfast, even though it sounds as disgusting as everything else I can think to eat, because I don’t have to cook it. Coffee made by my partner for me, and the heartbeat reassurance of his love. A second coffee, also a latte instead of switching to Americano as I usually do, because it feels good. A few chores promised to my later self, after the work that pays the bills and helps the people.

Outside the window the Norway maple we cut back off the roof stands defiantly with snow in its broken arms. It’s gonna grow no matter how I feel about it.

The day rolls on. Clients I manage to be present for, work I muddle through. I do dishes, finally; I make chicken stock, I eat leftovers my partner graciously heats after I fiddle with the lights I hope to use for the larp I’m running at the end of the month. The end of this month, the end that always finally comes, if I can just make it there. I hear there’s a lion. I think I should like to see that.