The February Blues
I will not let myself slip into them.
I really do work very hard not to fall into deep depression in February. I am deathly afraid of deep depression. Deep depression will take me out.
I am highly sensitive to light and its absence, making the winter months harder for me than most. I spend an hour every morning in front of a light therapy lamp hoping to offset the lack of sunlight.
I dance every morning because it improves my mood. It is hard to be sad and dance at the same time. Try it. Report back. Dance is an amazing way to shake overwhelming feelings out of our bodies.
I meditate every morning, recently several times a morning. I’ve also been dancing twice as much in the morning and other times throughout the day. And stepping up my hydration game.
My nervous system needs extra regulation in February.
Anniversaries come at me with a vengeance, and some can topple me.
My dad was born on February 9th. My maternal grandmother was born on February 8th. A longtime best friend no longer in my life was born on February 1st. My divorce was finalized on February 1st after several years of battle. Last year I ended a relationship and quite a job in February. My dad died on February 14th. Ten years ago.
Valentine’s Day will be the 10th anniversary of my dad’s death.
Which really proved a major turning point in my life. So many things have gotten harder for me since then. In great part because I resolved when my dad died to do a better job of processing his death than I did my mom’s.
I nearly killed myself multiple times after my mom died in my 20s. I was really hoping to avoid a repeat when my dad died at the end of my 30s. Because by then I had two small children who needed me to stick around.
So instead of trying to bury my grief and proceed with life as if nothing happened, I took a different approach. I quit my job and dedicated my time to researching my dad’s life and writing about it. As a means of grieving his death.
Instead of looking away and pretending I was fine—which FAILED SPECTACULARLY when my mom died—I decided to go all in on grief when my dad died. To confront it head on.
He helped by leaving me MANY ASSIGNMENTS. Including stewardship of his archives, comprised of more than 50 boxes of carefully collected and documented history. His history. I’m supposed to get the archives into a permanent home but I’ve been delayed by wanting to use them to write—as my dad invited me to do in his will.
I had no idea that diving into the archives would upend my life completely and leave me divorced, unemployed, and still trying to write a book 10 years later.
To be fair, I haven’t been at this the whole 10 years. I didn’t actually quit my job and look at the archives for the first time until November 2018. For the first almost four years after my dad died, I was working full time and raising two small children while moving to the burbs and commuting back to Philly for my job.
When I did finally focus on the archives, it was hard to look away.
You see, included in my dad’s archives—his history—is MY history. My story. The facts of my story. Which happen to be different from the story I was told and told myself.
It can be extraordinarily useful to have an archivist father when you decide you want to understand yourself.
I quite quickly became addicted—even though the archives have physically been away from me more than they have been with me these past 6 years—I have doggedly worked the entire time to uncover and report my own real past. Propelled and guided by the archives. Including by returning to almost everywhere I’ve ever lived. Also most places my parents lived before me. Conveniently documented with addresses and pictures for both my parents and several of their parents.
Y’all, my dad died and left me a treasure trove. And it has guided me on an epic adventure the likes of which I never possibly could have dreamed up if I tried.
The truth is SO MUCH MORE INTERESTING THAN FICTION!!!
I’ve written my way through it step by step. Literally moving my body as I write so I can process the enormous emotion associated with all I have uncovered. So many miles I have covered on my own two feet. Many miles also covered in my car. So much writing. So much healing. So much learning. So many times my mind has been blown. So many ways my heart has been opened. So much rewiring of my brain.
I have no PhD to show for it, but I have easily taken as many courses, workshops, classes, trainings, modules, and sessions, attended as many conferences, and written as many pages as a PhD student. Because we have this tradition in my family of getting the learning but not the degree. Kind of a f*ck you to the system.
I also reminded myself what it’s like to subsist on a student income.
My self-designed PhD in memoir writing and trauma recovery has included specializations in neuroscience, meditation, dance, narcissistic abuse, polyvagal theory, neurodiversity, culinary therapy, grief, gratitude, and self-compassion. I’ve put many hundreds of books in my head, really media of all forms. My learning the past six years has been unlike ever before in my life. I have always had a hungry brain, but the past six years have been next level.
I’ve put so much into my brain that I’ve had trouble controlling the firehose of what comes out. It’s left me writing on eight different platforms about 10 different subjects trying not to overwhelm people in any one place. It’s also a fear of commitment and inability to trust any of these platforms to be around long enough to be worth building huge audiences. Unless I can take my audiences with me.
Really my focus these past six years hasn’t been on building audiences. I’ve been in major grief and trauma, which does this funny thing. It makes you want to hide.
So I’ve been convincing my nervous system I’ve been hiding while sharing my entire trauma recovery journey in public daily for many thousands of people to see. But divided up in lots of different places so I don’t attract too much attention in any one. Because I really have been in hiding most of the past six years and in the midst of continual trauma.
Not capable of drawing attention to myself, I’ve hidden in plain sight for all to see.
This year will mark 10 years without my dad, 25 without my mom, six without a job, and two without a husband. Also six years of temporary housing and LOTS of change. My brain has taken a beating but my heart keeps on ticking.
Telling my story to whoever will listen in as many directions as I need to avoid overwhelming people has healed me in major ways and taught me more than I could ever have hoped.
And I’m not done yet.
Millions of words later and I’m still not done. But I am beginning to understand the structure this book could take. The book I’m writing about myself. In the meantime, I may self-publish a few of the other books I’ve written in all this outpouring.
Or, self-publish a second time.
I have been non-stop self-publishing for the past six years. Ever since I stopped publishing content for other people. I am wired to publish content. It’s what I do. I’ve been doing it since I was very small.
For all of these reasons, I will not slip into a major depression this February and have avoided it all prior Februarys. Because writing heals. And facing the truth helps us learn from the truth. And grief, though brutal, does not last forever.
Neither do extinction bursts by narcissists.
Learning about narcissistic abuse along this journey of mine has been extraordinarily helpful and will be helpful in surviving the TrumpVance Circus. Really, everything my father ever taught me has been extraordinarily helpful. Part of why I miss him so much.
Especially in February. When fascists are taking over the country.
Now is not a time for depression. Now is a time for resistance. Writing is resistance. Documenting is resistance. Dancing is resistance. Hydration is resistance. Connection is resistance. Expansive poses are resistance. Meditation is resistance. Culinary therapy is resistance. Learning is resistance. Self-compassion is resistance. Sunlight and nature are resistance.
Everything I devote my life to is resistance to narcissistic abuse.
I was raised for this.
Thank you, Pops. I miss you. I miss you to, Mama Melinda, and owe you just as much a debt of gratitude.
You raised me well. I am better prepared for whatever is ahead than most people.
February, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.