Words’ End

Something Completely Different — SCD — is the name of my house. It’s a good house, with good caring quirky people who have been extremely indulgent of me these past couple of weeks.

Good thing, because I haven’t been well lately. Out of the last week and a half, I’ve spent about four full days in bed, watching Farscape and intermittently crying, hating the world, hating myself and resenting the fact that sometimes I have to talk to human beings.

I’ve written about SAD before, though not at any length. It’s not cool to write about depression, and I mostly don’t have the words to do it right. But here’s my experience of it anyway, in the name of context and better understanding.  Here are some things that happen regularly in the winter.

• It doesn’t seem to hit until it gets cold.  Then it hits with a vengeance.  A sane person would move somewhere warmer, but my people and my life are here, and I love it here except for the damn SAD.
• I cry a lot.
• Sleep is erratic: I stay up too late and get up too early or too late, and my sleep schedule gets all out of whack.  For example, it’s 1am now.
• Because of this, a 9-5ish work schedule is excruciatingly hard.  I operate at about a third of my usual capacity for weeks on end.
• Until I get angry enough that something flips and I’m a productive fiend.  There’s no telling how long that will last before I have to build up an anger reserve again. (Gosh, put that way, there must be a better way to flip that switch.)
• (There are better ways, but their effectiveness is no more predictable than anything else during the cold season.)
• Mood shifts are unpredictable.  My arsenal of coping strategies for this is impressive.
• I get even more down on myself than I usually am.
• Accomplishments feel hollow unless I work very hard to make my brain think (but not really believe) otherwise.
• Good, positive things that people say to me take about five times more effort than usual to sustain in my mind without perverting them somehow.  ”She didn’t really mean that.  He doesn’t really think that.”
• I feel helpless.
• I eat erratically, which in itself affects my mood.  That’s a nasty feedback loop.
• It’s even more effort than usual to drink enough water.
• Everything is more effort than usual.
• I get lonely but can stand to spend only limited time with large groups of people, even people I adore.  Cravings for one-on-one company are overwhelming, so I sequester myself in order to not become a barnacle to my closest people.
• Accepting genuine offers of help is nearly impossible, and the need to respond to them often reduces me to tears.  Of course, I also crave the offers of help.
• Everything takes more energy.  Everything.  Brushing my teeth, setting down the computer, reading a book, getting enthused about food, everything.

I could go on.

I’m still functional, still me, still capable of surviving — at least I don’t battle suicidal ideation these days.  But it’s a nasty, debilitating, unpredictable depression, and I’m tired of it.

Still, life goes on, right?  Right.  It’s been intercession for a week now, with a few days to go, and the days that I haven’t spent in bed have been full.  I’ve attended parties, gone through all my clothing and the stuff in storage boxes, reduced the amount of stuff I possess again, reviewed three conference paper proposals, put my dissertation back up online and tweaked it to update the logistical bits, backed up all my data, hosted locally *and* remotely, spent some quality time with friends and beloveds.

The only thing left on my to-do list is this grant proposal that I’m supposed to start writing before the end of break.  Maybe I’ll get to it tomorrow morning and actually have three and a half days of true vacation without any obligations beyond the familial.  Maybe I won’t get to it at all, and feel bad.  The part about feeling bad never goes away.

So I’m exhausted.

Depression is real.  Seasonal depression is particularly hard to deal with because, though it may be finite, it’s also completely unpredictable… like the weather, I suppose.

Life goes on, and we all go on, but some of us are craving sunlight and warmth a little more than others.  Probably more than is reasonable.  If you don’t, and you have the opportunity to be someone’s ray of sunshine, please do.  ’Tis the brutal season.

He even has his own URL now: rolandht.org.

If you’re just tuning in, that’s my dissertation over there.

A few weeks ago, due to a fantastic coincidence of events and a generous friend willing to share the experience, I saw Kate Bornstein perform. She’s a force of nature, she is. She was standing before us, all 75 or so audience members, revealing to us bits of her head and heart with her own words. She used Keynote freely, showed us slide shows of family pictures, talked about her parents separately and together. These days his mom thinks he’s a nice girl.

She talked about living in the interstices of definition, defying it and longing for it or something similar, recognition of what she is, at any rate. “Look at me,” she half-invited, half-acknowledged. “I’m not a woman.” Then smirked, “I’m not a man, either.”

I mean, I’ve known for a long time that gender is a continuum, but I’d never been in the presence of someone so fluid, so grounded, so kind and generous and loving after having been through a hell of haze and doubts and danger — because we beat and kill and damage transgendered people, because we fear the absence of neat little boxes — that I’ll only ever imagine.

The end of her evening’s performance took me by surprise, and I stood there with Michel, shell-shocked, at words’ end. Later we talked with Kate for a few minutes, and I must’ve articulated something or other well, because she asked me if I was a writer. The question took me aback, and I spent most of the rest of the evening composing this post in my head, but that was weeks ago and is lost to time. Now I dust off dim recollections to make them shiny again for a moment.

This is why I don’t think of myself as a writer: to me, that identification comes with a need to write, and what I have is the occasional need to cook.

Been cooking… some. In the last month I’ve made kickass chocolate pudding (for the first time ever; what took me so long?), water chestnuts wrapped in bacon (thank you, fellow party goer, for the idea), bacon wrapped asiago stuffed dates (ditto), and a bunch of unremarkable meals, some involving bacon. I need a challenge involving reasonably priced ingredients.

Thanksgiving, though, oh! It was perfect. I dislike the holiday, I think it puts gratitude in bad historical company, but this year it was exactly right. Four of us, just my brother, sister IL, nephew and me. (Mom opted to stay in MA, as she and her partner were taking off for warmer places that weekend.)

We had no dinner table. We had things in the oven and other things on the grill, and no timing congruency at all. We ate food as it got done, cooked with wine glasses in hand and chatted. All evening. Then we spent most of the rest of the weekend sitting by the fire with tasty drinks, mustard seeds, mortars and pestles, other fiddly food tasks such as scraping out a dozen roasted squashes, and ice cream. It was pretty much my idea of idyll.

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Emily and Jesse are settling in, and the house is homey. Emily’s cat Destroyer of Worlds (Mundi, for short) is getting comfortable despite Nochka’s grumpy growling. Life is re-acquiring a rhythm at SCD.

Work is the kind of chaos that makes you throw your hands up in the air and go with it.

Winter is undeniably here, in my ribcage. Copious amounts of vitamin D help a surprising amount, but winter still sucks.

Still, Equinox (wedding anniversary) is past, and November 17 (the day my marriage was pronounced dead) is gone, and we’re fumbling towards Solstice. Strange, that in only two weeks the days will start growing again. Autumn lasted so long that wintry weather is really only just beginning. The time of long sleep, warm blankets and tiny LEDs is upon us.