Seasonal Depression

This last push toward spring always gets me. In my head, I’m walking up a hill filled with daffodils — and the promise of better weather and warmer days. About halfway up the hill, though — that’s when I’ll hit the first slick spot. There are always two or three slick spots, or muddy spots, or icy spots on the big hill.

That’s what late January and early February feel like, for me.

The first time I noticed that I was depressed, back in 2013, I had trouble showering, cleaning up, shaving, trimming my nails, etc. I’ll readily admit that I had hygiene troubles — and it was because I couldn’t get my brain to take care of the basic business of living.

Back then, I remember that one of my dental hygienists asked me if I was brushing my teeth properly. I was completely depressed — and I feel like other people besides my hygienist noticed it, but absolutely no one else said anything about it.

People are too polite to meddle — when it’s something really serious, I mean. Some people feel free to give an overweight person unsolicited advice on dieting or exercise, because they feel entitled to comment on what would make someone else more palatable or pleasurable — to them, the outside observer. It’s a disgusting type of behavior — to try to throw a life preserver at someone who doesn’t want or need one.

But these same people are nowhere to be found when someone is genuinely struggling, or genuinely in need of a support system. These same people absolutely struggle to give advice to — or to even be around — someone with depression, because … I guess they think thoughts-of-suicide are contagious.

At this point, I have to admit that I’m lucky to have not struggled with suicidal ideation. I usually just … I feel trapped where I am. I feel like moving on to something else would suit me better, so anytime I start to panic, I begin making plans for a completely different future. I also catastrophize, yeah, but I keep telling myself that I can start planning for a different future, with a different life — and that’s always kept me focused on living.

Wait a damn minute. Is that just maladaptive daydreaming? I don’t think so, because some of my plans have come to fruition. Some haven’t, of course, but that’s …

That’s probably a good thing.

Now, eleven years later, you’d think I’d be used to depressive episodes. And I am. I’ve found ways to cope. But I’m perpetually exhausted. I do everything I possibly can, even when I’m low on energy, but then I collapse at the end of the day.

So, instead of not showering, I do make sure that I carve out time for bathing. But it’s an almost Herculanean feat. I will shower, but it will take nearly thirty minutes to take care of everything — showering, shaving, etc.

I can trim my toenails or brush my hair, but then I’ll have to take a fifteen or twenty minute break to mentally regroup. And the most confusing aspect, for me, is that I don’t feel like I should feel fatigued.

I don’t do a lot of strenuous work or exercise, but because I spend my days overthinking, I exhaust myself.

I’m not physically exhausted, but I get mentally overwhelmed. It drains me, trying to keep up with just the basic tasks of living. Being interested in living is tougher, when the grass isn’t green and the sky is always a little too gray.

By spring, these signs and symptoms will dissipate. I’ll start feeling more normal and, with more daylight hours, I’ll feel like I have more time to get things done.

I just have to make it through this last little window of winter. And I’ll try my best, one minute at a time.