BLAH HUMBUG

....And so the other day I was talking with Kid #2's teacher and she asked me if I'd ever considered the fact that I might have Seasonal Affective Disorder. Well, yea. I thought about it two years ago when I was pregnant with Kid #2 and the holidays were rolling around and I just couldn't seem to get myself out of the funk I was in. A co-worker told me about it and described some of the very mild symptoms I was indeed experiencing. She recommended I buy one of those special lights for my desk. I never did because shortly after the holidays I began to perk up and then baby came and well, you know how it is. But since then. I've noticed that every year, about this time, I start to drag. My writing slows, my ideas are flat. So when Kid #2's teacher said he was rather blah-humbug that day and suggested that perhaps he was in his blah-humbug mood because *I* was in a blah-humbug mood then I started to think, hey, maybe she's right. So the week goes on and I'm noticing this real urge to avoid all things Christmas. I mean, here it is December 19th and I have not strung light one, have not baked cookie to first. Only have a snowman wreath on my front door just for good measure. So I started to think, well, maybe it's not Seasonal Affective Disorder. Maybe it's more along the line of what my girl Rashunda was talking about in one of her previous blogs. I mean this whole American Christmas stuff is just exhausting. The pressure to get someone something they don't want or need. The pressure to decorate your house with all of these lights that are gonna run your freakin' electric bill through the roof. The commercials and newspapers and bus stop ads all cramming for your attention. The people who act like the widget they are doing 95 miles an hour on the beltway for is the last freakin' widget that'll ever be made. The phoney-baloney-ness of it all. And don't get me started about the whole Santa thing. I have a serious, serious problem with telling my kids that a fat white male is going to slide down their chimney and give them everything they've ever hoped for. First off, I don't go for telling kids lies and then having to de-contaminate their minds later down the line with the truth (that goes for the Easter bunny, too). Second of all, I don't go for telling young girls that a man is going to bring them happiness (read: every Disney movie ever made). Third of all, I don't go for telling my colored child that a white man is the holder and deliverer of their joy. Uh-uh. Nada. Not happnin' captain. Call me a scrooge but that's just the bottom line. So I'm thinking, all day, that maybe it's just this whole seasonal/holiday stuff that's got me so blah-humbug.

But then, as Spouse started to put on his painting clothes (we're painting the kitchen and family room FINALLY !!!!!) and began painting over the white walls that I've been staring at for the past 3 years I immediately knew what it was/is. Eureka! I am seriously affected by the lack of color. As each stroke of my beautiful Benjamin Moore #982 - Peaceful Breeze went on the wall, I felt a wave of happiness wash over me. I felt life filling my lungs, coursing through my veins. I felt like I was ready to run the New York Marathon.

Here's the deal: we artists are affected in very deep ways by color and sound. A friend of mine, who is a dancer and now developing a love for writing, told me once that her children's "noise" used to literally drive her out of the house. Her point was that as artists, we *need* moments of silence in ways that non-artists do not, we are often affected by loud sounds and noises much more intensely. For instance, I do not think Spouse could survive without his television. Honestly. He would never make it. For me, when the television is on and the commercials are running one after the other, I feel like my mind is going to explode. I NEED SILENCE.
The winter months don't bother him. The bland gray sky, the naked trees (half of them pruned in my neighborhood, which makes me physically ill), the yellow piss-colored grass .... ugh! It makes me incredibly depressed. But when Spring comes and the green is back and the sky is blue again and my tulips are pushing their way through the Earth, I feel like my heart is going to break through my chest. My writing is vivid and rich with detail, metaphors and similes. My poems are right there....on the pulse of what I'm trying to get through. My charachters are right there on the edge of my desk just waiting for me to take up my pen and get going. But winter....forget it.

I looked back in my journal and sure enough....right there around October and early November I was pumping at least a chapter a day. Now, I'm lucky if I can stay awake long enough to get a paragraph.

So, I've figured out what I need to do to A) accomplish my goal of finishing this novel draft by the end of the year and B) to get through this season without calling my internist for a zoloft prescription. I schlepped over to one of the most essential stores ever installed at my local mall and picked up the White Blossom body cream. (Aromatherapy is essential for conditions like mine). And then I went over to the flower shop and bought myself two big bouquets for my desk....crocuses, daisies, carnations...just color. I need it right now. And I'm sitting in my family room (which is not yet finished but getting there) loving Mr. Benjamin Moore.

be well. be love(d).