1.

I’m not at my best in the fall – depression takes over and takes me for a ride. It’s interesting – I can feel my depression creeping up on me as October marches on, and I can feel my brain starting to come back online in fits and starts as December progresses. It’s an odd thing to feel your thinking turn back on.

My annual bout of fall depression is less about light exposure than it is about history: my bad stuff seems to mostly occur in autumn.

I’m lucky in that regard, since sunshine and my location take leave of each other in any real sense until February now. Adding seasonal depression to my annual drop would be an annoyance with limited relief beyond full-spectrum light banks.

We’re all about short, dark days on the Wet (west) Coast of British Columbia in the winter.

2.

I’m coming back online, but dominating my emotions as things fire back up is a sense of being overwhelmed. It’s possible that I may have overcommitted myself – or been overcommitted – this December. I’m starting to feel quite a bit of pressure as the month rolls on. I worry I’m not going to get done what needs to be done, and December for me now feels very much like a duty.

The holiday season became less thrilling for me when my mom died. I didn’t do much in the way of personal participation last year. I worked hard to make sure others had a good December and holiday season, but I mostly absented myself from the field. No dinners or parties for me.

My mom loved everything about Christmas, from the decorating to the cooking to the stockings to the possibility that the day might be white. Her enthusiasm made everything about the month fun.

The day lost much of its shine for me with her passing. There’s no new Christmas sweater to admire, no new Christmas tree earrings – she was forever looking for the perfect pair, and no more “apple, maybe, walnut, I don’t think so” inside joke for the fruit cake.

The timing of her passing doesn’t help, either – she died on January 3rd, and that last Christmas was bittersweet, hard, and poignant.

I pulled out some decor this year, mostly because my grandson and daughter are living here, but I’m still not interested in a tree. I’ve no exterior lights up either, though I regret that. I always enjoyed seeing the house lit up in the winter.

I got rid of all the lights in a fit of grief as I packed up the holiday decor the year she died. I got rid of much. I was angry, and it seemed, in my anger and grief, that destruction was definitely the way forward, even if destruction looked like a donation to the thrift store.

Gone is gone. Haste makes waste. I should’ve put them aside until I wasn’t as sad, but I chose impulsivity instead. Ditto the Christmas tree, and unfortunately, none of these things is cheap to replace.

My mother always warned me that I’d regret not being more patient. How like her to be right from the grave.

3.

I’d have stood Christmas dinner out again this year, but my dad decided to host a large gathering this year, which means a lot of work for me, despite not living in the same house. Putting on a holiday dinner for fourteen is a different proposition than having a few friends over for a simple meal, something Dad didn’t realize at first, so much of the planning, organizing, and prep work is being filtered through me.

It’s an oddity, taking on the role of manager for your parents.

I don’t think Dad realizes how much work and stress he’s offloading on me. My mom was always the one who did the organizing and prep work, and the people who don’t take on that role don’t always realize how much work a big dinner can be.

Then again, an aging father – eighty-five – with some memory and health issues is already part of my daily routine. We chat at least once a day, often more, and while I remain grateful he’s alive and part of my life, it’s hard to meet memory loss and diminishing capacity over and over every day.

I get testy too often.

4.

When my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer, I learned that grief is something that rises up long before people leave us. It shows up in a million small ways as we navigate sickness and impending loss.

Perhaps the frustration and resentment I feel is not so much the work – I can organize in my sleep, and scheduling and logistics are my happy places – but because my father can’t do it on his own. My help is necessary, not optional, and that truth’s a bit of a punch in the gut.

Nothing brings on anger and irritation like recognizing that someone we love is diminishing and there’s nothing we can do to help. They’re much easier to feel than fear, sorrow, and grief.

5.

Grief gets better when you look outward. Sorrow is lessened when you help others. Sadness eases its grip somewhat as you look outside yourself to the world at large, at least, that has been my experience.

Last year, instead of feeling wronged by a Christmas that didn’t include my mom, I decided, on the advice of my counsellor, to participate actively in the Christmas Bureau program. I’d always given cash, but last year, I decided to give time: I adopted one of the families that registered for the program.

It was a lovely experience. I felt better when I turned my focus outward. I felt good about shopping for people who needed the things they put on their Christmas lists. I felt good filling up the holiday hamper, and so grateful for the blessing in my life.

We’re not rich, but we’re not poor, either, and so for my family, Christmas gifting is mostly about wants. Adding to an already-robust pile of stuff always felt that little bit icky. I felt nothing but good when doing the Christmas Neighbour shopping.

I’m volunteering with the program again this year. I felt so good about last year that I decided to go with two families. I’ve been shopping up a storm for about five weeks now, for both the gifts and the meal. Presents to be wrapped are staged in my office and on the dining room table, and food for the hampers is organized on a temporarily empty bookshelf. All is proceeding as it should, and yet I’m suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

I know I mentioned my dad. I know I mentioned grief. Did I mention the December birthdays?

5.

My son’s birthday is in December. We’re having the family gathering here this week – taco Wednesday, with gifts and a birthday cake on the side. I bought some taco shell holders to celebrate – did you know they were a thing? I’d set the table today to get that done, but I have to wrap the Christmas Neighbour presents currently occupying it.

Tacos are a good choice. Tasty and timely. I recently acquired a family doctor after three years without one, and he sent me for some baseline tests, the results of which showed up yesterday. I’m mostly healthy, to the dismay of my anxiety. She had plans.

I have a few problems. I have high cholesterol – I suspected: such is the lot of the carbivore. I also have low iron, so beef will do the body good.

My fasting blood sugars weren’t great either, but one problem at a time. I have Achilles Tendonitis on the right foot, and the Botox wore off, so my neuralgia is back in rotation. It all feels like a lot, dealing with health stuff and dad stuff and grief and Christmas shopping and my son’s birthday party this week.

Luckily, my grandson’s birthday and party aren’t until Saturday.

6

My house is your usual kind of house. It has some bedrooms, some bathrooms, a kitchen and family room combo, and a separate dining and living room because it was built in the nineteen-eighties, and the closed-concept design was the order of the day.

I like walls, so I’m not complaining. The house is relieved – I complain about a lot of other things herein.

I need new flooring – it’s original and reaching the end of its run. I need new retaining walls – if people could stop building them out of landscape ties that eventually rot away, that’d be great. I need work done in my kitchen- most of the drawer runners don’t work, and we can’t find replacements. I hate obsolescence.

A big bag of money would also be nice.

What’s really lacking, however, is a soundproofed room or closet. Maybe I could do something in the attic?

My grandson has big feelings, and one of the things he does to deal with them is to go outside and run around the backyard, yelling and screeching until he feels better in his skin. I’m immensely jealous. I want to run around the backyard and scream at the top of my lungs until I feel a sense of relief.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could just scream out our accumulated frustrations every day? Singing loudly along with the radio can also suffice. Much depends on who you’re singing along to.

7

If primal screams from the back deck aren’t on the agenda, I could try communicating with people. I could tell my dad that I’m starting to feel a bit overwhelmed by the level of communication. I could talk to my brothers about stepping up.

I could ask for help with the Christmas families I’ve sponsored. I could ask for help with wrapping and organizing. I could ask for help with the birthday dinners. I could ask for help when I feel depressed or overwhelmed.

I could try talking about grief, but that’s a hard one in my family of origin. We don’t talk about Bruno, and much of life is Bruno.

Unfortunately, It’s not about what I could do, but what I’m likely to do. Reaching out isn’t one of my practiced behaviours.

Perhaps that can be next year’s theme?

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