Welcome to the Christmas Club
“‘Tis the season,” and yet I’ve been running low on the holiday “jolly” for weeks. Perhaps you’re feeling fa-la-la-ed out, too? If so, then welcome to the “club:” a metaphorical place where Rudolph’s shiny nose evokes a “so, big deal” and an “Oh, really? Says who? can be heard by multitudes whenever that old-timey tune about December being “the most wonderful time of the year” overwhelms the musical sound tracks on the radio and in department stores.
The reality is that this string of days between Thanksgiving and the new year can be an emotionally challenging time. The reasons, we know, are myriad: financial and social pressures; family strife; health concerns; a now empty dining room chair that was once occupied by a loved one.
We understand, too, that for many, the appropriate box to check on this sort of list might well be the one labeled “all of the above.” In my case, the tip-off that sadness, and maybe even a bit of burgeoning depression, would be elbowing for space around my fireplace came in early November when a gray, low-bellied Oregon sky descended as I drove north with my husband, Phil, to visit family.
Within days of my arrival to visit my stepdaughters and their families––after having spent a delightful month in balmy Southern California hanging with my daughter, Grace—I recognized what was happening: unremitting rain, gloom, and the chill that had already settled in my bones.
I am a life-long Midwesterner, and one who meets the criteria for “Seasonal Affective Disorder,” or SAD, which is a type of depression related to changes in the seasons. SAD always begins and ends at the same time every year—when, significantly, the amount of sunlight is reduced by days growing shorter. December starts to roll in like a relentless train, and it doesn’t chuff away until April.
As Phil and I crossed from California into Oregon, I’d realized that the skies had grown increasing ominous, with only intermittent sun breaking through the overcast. I’d expected that we would simply experience “the usual” that often moved in at this time of year: variable temperatures fluctuating between the fifties and the thirties.
How certain I’d been that the weatherman’s map would agree with this, even as I brushed aside my fear about the waning of the sunlight as we made our way toward our destination. I had anticipated being able to skate into the Portland November and then leave behind the cold rain that I somehow believed wouldn’t begin in earnest until December. I would be safe from the slog of listlessness, low-level funk—and the spike in anxiety that would inevitably track me through Chicago’s snowy environs. Wow, this is way too soon for the blues, my internal voice warned on day four of what was to be our nearly month-long stint in the Pacific Northwest. “It’s a good thing I don’t live here!”
On this particular morning, as I peered out the window of the Airbnb, half-expecting to see mallards swimming on the streets, I fretted about ways to entertain myself through the horribly long hours that I would spend by myself while Phil explored the city and everyone else toiled at work. By this time, I already had grown sure that I wanted nothing to do with struggling under the downpour. And so, I acted on impulse: after flicking on every light on the main floor of the house, I curled up in a chair near the heat register, plugged in my laptop, and embarked on an online shopping binge.
Buy some warm, oversized sweaters that can be delivered today! my internal retail therapist prodded. Get some fleece-lined leggings and wool socks, too! Only after I’d hit the “click here to buy” button far too many times, was I able to admit that what I was accomplishing with this attack upon my wallet was not a solution to my problem at all. In the end, I was only engaging in an onslaught of folly.
After all, hadn’t I packed a half-dozen wool-blend cardigans in Chicago before we left? Along with a goose–down coat and even boots that I’d stuffed into the trunk of our car? Wasn’t I actually prepared for the onslaught of cold weather, rather than the last goodbye kiss of autumn?
What should have been obvious to me as I clicked the “FED EX Expedited Delivery” button had not occurred to me. I now recognized that my splurge had actually been borne of a desperation to wrestle with my impending doldrums—the bone chill a metaphor for the emotions that had flipped the switch on my good spirits and shut down my joy for a season that was difficult enough already. Finally waking from the spell of manic excess, I closed the possibility of further impulse purchases by pushing the tiny “cancel” window on the L.L. Bean online catalog.
A while later, chagrined and convinced that I heard the inner voice of my Mom chastising me for “wasting good money,” I opted for a more introspective approach in the management of my malaise. Determined not to succumb to cynicism or the urge to warble a “woe-is-me” approach, I trained my thoughts on all that I had to be thankful for in my life. Surely, this would provide me with inspiration.
Without even a moment’s hesitation, I rattled off good health, trusted friends, and the opportunity to spend quality time initially with my daughter, and then with my well-loved “steppies” and the “grands.” How easy it was to actually tick through my mental index of these and other blessings. Undoubtedly, a gratitude mantra repeated like a prayer could spark a bit of yuletide cheer?
Unfortunately, no such miracle occurred.
Instead, one day simply collapsed into the next, and for nearly every minute—both waking and dreaming afterward—I woke to the creep of anxiety that I always worked on when at home, the effort to keep it at a distance using both distractions and exercise. Yes, exercise, which unbelievably enough, actually included brisk, bundled-up walks in the rain with a borrowed, enormous umbrella commandeered by Phil.
Nevertheless, by the time we left Portland for Chicago, I was troubled by the amount of effort that had been required to shake off, even temporarily, the descending cloud of my winter-time depression. “After so many years, shouldn’t you have this whole SAD thing under better control?” my mind prodded. “And why isn’t the gratitude you carried so deep in your heart enough to propel you forward?”
And with that insight, the door of clarity cracked open, wide enough to illuminate an important truth that I’d somehow lost sight of: sometimes, healing is best facilitated not when we attempt to will ourselves to “move on—” but when we allow ourselves to lean into our pain, instead.
And this, I’ve decided, will be my gift to myself this holiday season—to extend an invitation to my sadness, allowing it to settle in with me at my gratitude table and not try to banish it.
In so doing, I’m expecting that I will also need to create enough space for the grief that has touched down on my life in this past year—including the death of my ex-husband this past February: my sorrow for all my daughter is experiencing in the aftermath of her father’s passing; and my anguish for all that a dear friend whose son recently died precipitously is experiencing. These difficult passages superseded even the always thick cloud cover and the ceaseless rain.
Do I anticipate that the “merry” emotions will make at least a few appearances this year? Actually, I do. For the record, I’m focusing on my determination to stay open to the possibility that, in the spring of 2023, the daffodils I planted in my garden this past autumn may push up through the dirt early. And if they do? Well, now wouldn’t that be cause for a great, big Ho-Ho-Ho?
