#depression winter shitthatsucks

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Winter Weaving

Well, winter is swiftly passing (though for me this time of year always seems to drag by impossibly slowly, so by the time spring actually comes, I’ve almost forgotten what grass is…I don’t know if I’m alone in this), and I figured I would update my blog in case anyone actually reads it. And for myself too. Yeah.

This is the first winter in which I went into it with my eyes wide open, fully aware and with no illusions about how bad it can get, how low I can go, and as prepared for it as I could possibly be. Armed with a sun lamp, vitamin D, the two more epic cats in the history of cat-kind, a yoga ball and lots of dark green veggies for the depression (not to mention the super duper pills my doctor prescribes for me…that was sarcasm. I hate taking them.), kava kava, ridiculous amounts of free time, and herbal tea for the anxiety, and yes, a helluva lot of compassion and gentleness for myself when I’m less than perfect and less than what I expect of myself, which is basically all the time.

The irony of it all is that compassion and self love are two concepts that I’ve struggled with since my early 20′s, when I became a self-proclaimed hippie, flew out west and lived in a tent in the woods for a year and half, and first heard of such an idea. Considering what it would mean to apply it to myself, I was shocked to discover how much self loathing I carry around, definitely more than the average person. Which then became the catalyst for some seriously deep soul searching, some intense asking of my favourite question, “Why?” And the root of a whole new vista of self knowledge that I won’t get into here. But the point of this paragraph is that self love and compassion have eluded me over and over again, like trying to chase down your own shadow. I guess I thought that I would be sitting there on a rock by the ocean one morning, smoking a cigarette in the lotus position while the sun rose and all my fellow hippies were still sleeping, and Compassion and Self Love would just slide into my skin as easily as the passing wind, and my eyes would brighten and suddenly everything would become so clear, and from that moment on my life would be forever changed. All my self hatred would dissolve in the salt water at my feet, I would start taking my dreams and goals and creativity seriously (but not too seriously), I would start eating well, start exercising regularly, teach yoga, find a boy who worshiped me, travel overseas, wear those pants that only come down to the tops of your calves, make your ass look amazing and your legs look capable, and sandals that support your arches. I wouldn’t be gangly anymore. My dreads would be perfectly even and would have beads and treasures hidden deep inside them. I would spend my 20′s traveling the world and then, at the glorious onset of my 30′s, probably on an airplane over the desert somewhere, would come to the neatly packaged conclusion that my real calling in life is to _______________ (insert some kind of natural healing career here), and would then begin a conscious journey into attending university to achieve the schooling necessary to do this. I would have supportive friends who came over for potlucks with strawberry and blackberry wine, bright scarves, attentive lovers who were drawn to my inner light but could never touch it, an old upright piano, a calico cat, and an apartment that was built in 1901 with a Victorian couch. My futon would have suns and moons and stars on it, and when my friends would sleep over we would talk far into the night, and once I had fallen asleep they would lie on their backs, staring at the sarong draped across the ceiling with the perfume of incense wafting down into their nostrils, enchanting them, making them wonder, with the music that softly played. Loreena McKennitt, Sinead O’Connor’s Gospel Oak, Ravi Shankar.

The reality of it, however, is that Compassion and Self Love finally came to me when I was too tired, too beaten down, too broken, to do or to be anything else. I was in the hospital with no one and nothing, and I wanted to die. Because I left the bright scarves, the turn of the century apartment buildings, the potlucks and sleepovers behind, in my quest to find the mountains and the fierce rage of snowboarding, of house music and Jager bombs, or situations that I could describe as sick and fucking epic, and when I found it, all that was in myself that didn’t align with it just fell away, and writing this now, three years later, I still barely remember who I am. Because I sacrificed it all to feel, for one safe and steady moment, normal. What I considered safe and steady, what I considered normal.

And now, I would give almost anything to feel like myself again.

But the funny thing is, I’m not only that girl from Osborne Village anymore – the one who dances at The Toad, the one who eats at Massala and Wasabi and who remembers Out of the Blue when it was cooler, and who has an account at Movie Village. I see myself as a tapestry, woven of so many bright, so many muted, complex threads. Can’t I be a Villager and a snowboard chick? Can’t I love the energy and the pulse of the city, and be a horse person too? Can I love the painting that happens with the written word, and be moved to indescribable levels by music, by art, too? Maybe it’s about integrating our images of ourselves with all the new things we’re learning and becoming every moment, and never limiting ourselves to what we used to be, even five minutes ago. Not worrying that no one has ever done it like this before.

I’ve felt, for my whole life, that I don’t have deep roots, or a strong sense of who I am or what I’m about. So maybe I’ve been shaky from the beginning, so no wonder I feel so lost. But lately it’s my passions that I keep coming back to as a touchstone for who I am. What is it I believe in? Like, really believe in? Down to the bone? What is it in my life that I feel like I’d die if I didn’t have? The things that make life feel worth living? What are my morals, my ethics, even when the world around me seems so devoid of them, or like no one cares? What do I care about? And you start to shape your life around these passions.

I think that as we grow older a refining process begins to take shape within us. We don’t lose our passions…we just start to see time differently. We start to ask ourselves, what matters most? What do I want to put my time and energy into? What do I want to grow in this garden that is my life? What will I cultivate? Because we can’t give 100% to all our passions (if we have as many as I happen to). We each have to create our own medicine wheel, and balance out what goes within it. How much Deer, how much Dolphin? How much piano, how much dance? How much sketching, how many horses, what colours will they be? And so on. Kind of like a recipe.

So every day, no matter how big the snowbanks are or how short the days, I remind myself that January is almost over, and that spring is on its way. Reminding myself of what’s true, even when all evidence is to the contrary.

Bye for now.

#depression winter shitthatsucks