December’s got off to a weird start this year. It’s usually my favourite month of the year – not just because it starts with my birthday and ends with Christmas, but also because of that feeling of carefree finality that comes with the end of the year. Because it’s a time to recharge, take stock, and, however briefly and shamelessly, be merry for merriment’s sake.
But for some reason, I’m just not feeling that this time. Traditionally for me, December starts with a sudden lurch into festivity. The tinsel comes down from the loft and is draped over every surface, the kitchen gets snowed under with stollen and biscotti, every cup of tea is festooned with cinnamon sticks. Love Actually and a festive Scotch is a staple of the first night of the month. But whilst none of that has been forgotten this year, I’m feeling a bit like it’s all being done on autopilot, like I’m feeling Christmassy because I should rather than because I actually am.
Part of me isn’t really that surprised, given the year we’ve had. I mean, personally 2016 has been a terrific year, full of momentum and huge forward gains, but externally all that just looks like a silver lining to an increasingly bleak bigger picture. The foul aftermath of Brexit, the election of Donald Trump, the resurgence of the far right across the world: coming into December has really brought home that New Year’s Eve is not the big reset button we like to pretend it is, and the thought of all that continuing on the other side of the calendar does rather push Christmas spirit down the list of priorities.
And of course another part of me is concerned that all this is actually much more internal than an anxious reaction to the state of the world. In the past, this kind of lethargy and disinterest has usually been the herald of a period of depression, so naturally I can’t help worrying if this isn’t just a common funk but a warning I should take note of.
Still, these days I am nothing if not positive; and the fact that I am actually able to hear the warning now is proof that I am far more able than I was twelve months ago to deal with whatever comes next. And in a way, there’s actually some relief to be had from seeing the Big D again. However great my progress has been over the last year, I’ve always accepted that someday I would inevitably have to face down another “episode”. That’s unfortunately just the nature of mental illness – you can move to a dry country, but you’re still going to have to dodge the rain from time to time. But now that time is here, I can focus on how to deal with it rather than keep looking over my shoulder for it to come.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is, if I’ve read things right and the Big D is planning on a Christmas visit, that’s OK. It’s not the end of the world anymore. Because as much as I’d rather it stay the fuck away, I know better now than to ignore it. The lows are just an inevitable part of life, and just as depression isn’t simply an illness that makes you sad all the time, overcoming it doesn’t mean you have to always be happy. The trick for me has always been in practicing control rather than abstinence; in learning how to go down without going under, and being able to watch the sun set knowing it will rise again.