February got me again, but different this time

I think I liked the depression better

I swear I’ve got that third part of “How to deal with…” series all lined up, right here in the ol’ noodle, but the ol’ noodle has taken a few loop-de-loops lately and would really prefer to hang around in a bowl with some mushrooms or something until this whole thing is over.

Last year, in February, I wrote nothing for a while and then wrote one of my favorite-ever pieces from here, about the not-writing.

By way of excuse I thought of simply reposting it, but upon reading it over I realized that while it’s still a very nice piece of writing, it does not at all characterize this here February, which is…different.

While lassitude beckons, it doesn’t feel like an option. Depression tries to put its little hand in mine but fury is too busy wrapping its fingers around my neck. The god-damn world is coming apart (please read that in the Canadian style, if you hear it), and there’s no time, no space to be sorry and sad and useless. The rodent told us there’s six more weeks of winter but we don’t get to go back to our burrows. We gotta move now.

To the frozen North, for example

For me, this has become rapidly true in both the macro and the microcosmic senses. The world continues to…well, do what it’s doing, and I’ve been trying to stay engaged while protecting my peace. Meanwhile, in the past month I’ve also been dragged through several levels of hell on my way to a planned visit to the US, which visit has been extended by an accelerated plan to sell the house I’ve owned with several friends since 2011. I entered the United States this past Friday night, had beers in Bangor, and have been slowly unspooling since. In the lead-up to the trip, however, I was very much not unspooling: I was spooling, hard.

In contrast to previous Februaries and their depressive gray sludge dragged over stale toast with a rusty butter knife, this one has been pointy and scary and frigging weird, as I stacked up both immediate and anticipatory stresses like so many crusty plates in the sink. I was angry about interpersonal stuff that had never gotten resolved and had led to some of this drama. I was sad at the prospect of having to deal with all my personal detritus of the period of my life that I spent in this place, through a wild cohousing experiment, divorce, rebuilding, Trump 1.0, the pandemic.

But most of all I was scared. I didn’t want to drive to the U.S. alone and feel that skin-crawly, slime-portal feeling I get when I cross the border and start to see Trump signs and thin blue line flags on pickups. I didn’t want to deal with profoundly cluttered house. I didn’t want my partner to fly down here with everything that’s going on with planes and the FAA. I didn’t want to be in the U.S. when my visitor record to Canada expired, and have to come back across the border and explain myself.

It’s a lot to be dealing with, and I’m trying to stay afloat. The weekend was nice; I spent it with a friend who is managing an even tougher house situation, at her farm in Vermont. Arrival at my place Monday evening was hectic and kind of miserable. Tuesday I stressed myself out trying to figure out how the next four or so weeks are supposed to pan out. Wednesday seemed, for whatever reason, a little more manageable.

Today I’m heading to an event I’ve been really enjoying the past few years, which was the original anchor point of this visit. I’m hoping I’ll be able to relax and enjoy it, and I get to see my partner after a long week apart. After that, though, things promise to be a bit of a slog, punctuated by dinners with friends and other bright spots.

Still. Just a note that I’m gonna be behind the ol’ eight-ball (it’s hanging out there on the table with the ol’ noodle) for a bit and it’s hard to produce much of substance when that’s going on.

I’ll have Part 3 soon, I promise. And then the long-awaited (by me, anyway) series on attachment repair. Until then: here, have parts 1 and 2 again, take care of yourselves for godsake, and much love in this dangerous time.