Monday, January 24, 2011

Take me home country roads.

I’m sitting at home on a subzero degree day thankful that I don’t have to go out and more blessed by the warm sun that is shining on my back through the sliding glass door leading out onto my porch newly re-blanketed with six inches of snow that fell soon after my having shoveled off the previous foot or so of fluffy white stuff. It’s January in upstate New York and as usual this time of year, I’m wondering why I still live here. I despise winter, have never enjoyed winter sports or activities, and suffer from seasonal affective disorder (SAD). I was born in late November in Bangor, Maine, and have often said while gazing morosely out the window on a typical November day that if this was my first view of life, no wonder I’ve suffered from dysthymia and depression for as long as I can remember. Add in the memories I have of the many profound losses our family experienced back then, all taking place in winter months and I realize that there is embedded deep within me a hardwired brain pattern for winter blues. Every September, the battle begins, as dusk arrives a bit earlier each day, the unsettling twinges of anxiety emerge along with panicky waves of claustrophobia as I unwillingly contemplate the impending arrival of daylight savings time, the robber baron of precious evening sunlight. Soon, I’ll be hemmed in by darkness in the morning and by darkness too early in the afternoons. By mid-November, depending on the severity of the season and the number and degree of combined stresses from other sources, these mild anxieties may have escalated to a full-blown mood disorder. I had some years of psychotherapy around this and other issues and did better for several years. By forcing myself to return to therapy for some October tune-up sessions where I was able to absorb a degree of objectivity, I was able to recognize that my world wasn’t really falling apart and I wasn’t going crazy. My circadian rhythms were off and I needed to compensate. I made adjustments, forcing myself to get out socially, go dancing, be with friends, attend church, read inspiring books, play boardgames with my grandchildren, anything that assisted my brain and body to make the chemical and attitudinal shifts I knew I was going to need to survive. Those were good years for the most part. I not only survived but I thrived in some fundamental ways, managed to stay hopeful and emotionally even through the long, long Northeastern winter months, and not to drive off every friend I’ve ever had.

This year has been a tough one. The stresses have been heavy, personal losses overwhelming, the challenges of life acute, physical and emotional energy low. Efforts to access my cache of internal resources haven’t been successful in lighting an effective fire in my motivations. The wood seems damp, smoking and smoldering, giving off little heat. So, here I am, in the grip of a good case of winter blues, irritable, isolating, thinking seriously that the only thing worth getting up in the morning for is that first fresh cup of coffee. Once I get the first sips of dark brew into me, I sit with my journal, pouring out my despair and feeble attempts at praise and gratitude. I read some scripture and maybe a devotional passage and finally am able to at least begin the process of getting through another day. I’m putting this on paper and posting it here as a type of therapy for myself and perhaps for some other sufferer who needs to be reminded that Spring will come again, the air will warm, the trees will leave, the birds will sing. But in the meantime, there needs to be an effort on one’s own behalf despite the murky stream of melancholy that colors the world and the deep internal shiver that paralyzes all desire to move. There are treatments for this disorder, including light therapy (phototherapy), psychotherapy and medications. I personally avoid medications of any type but for some people the appropriate medication can provide a bridge over the roughest waters. Exercise is very beneficial but can be difficult to initiate when the mood is low.

Writing helps me a great deal. It allows me to take these vague discomforts, ruminations, anxieties and despairs and cast them out into the light of day. I find myself able to arrive at new conclusions about their meanings, to develop fresh perspective from that which has been like an obsessive dirge of despondency, formed too early, reinforced by harsh environmental cycles, replaying itself over and over in my soul. I will escape one day soon to a land of warmth and sunshine. I was never meant to dwell in this semi-dark, frozen place, beautiful though it can be in other seasons. Surely I was mis-delivered by a tired, mentally befuddled stork who was himself suffering from winter blues, who lacked the energy and motivation to carry me to Arizona where I was supposed to be born.

Keep the faith,

Carol

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