Shriek though I may, all I hear are the howling winds in the fallow season.

I've made no secret of the fact that I find winter a challenging time of year. For a while, I put forth a valiant effort to appreciate it, knowing that without it, the planet would quickly become inhospitable to mammalian life. And as we incrementally ratchet up the global thermostat with all our shortsighted misdoings, we come ever closer to seeing the devastation of a winterless world. I am fully prepared to acknowledge this theoretical necessity of the fallow season. Nonetheless, I don't do so well at this end of the calendar.

In previous years, winter has brought along a bad case of the weepies. I'd hermit myself up as much as possible, so as to not make anyone else have to put up with my inconsolable sniveling over... my fucked-up brain chemistry. For that is what Seasonal Affective Disorder is. I'm imagining most folks understand the mechanics of this much-publicized malady by this point, but in case you don't, here's how it works: the brain requires a certain amount of sunlight to create serotonin, it's natural happy juice. When the days get short in the winter, your retinas don't register adequate sunlight and your brain produces reduced levels of serotonin, thus goading your mood to take a big ol' careening dive, with squelchy, liquidy splat at the end. And then, as the days begin to lengthen in the spring, sufferers will often experience a lovely giggling euphoria as their serotonin levels climb back up to normal. Now, I know that sounds a little like bipolar disorder or something-- but it's far more predictable, and, in most cases, nowhere near as severe. A bipolar depressive state can become suicidal and a bipolar manic state is sometimes crazed beyond recognition of natural consequences-- and from what I understand, sufferers cycle through these flailing polarities in patterns that have nothing to do with orbit of the planet. And I know, for sure, that my own issues are no where near so extreme.

Treatments for S.A.D. are still pretty limited. You can go to your nearest pharmaceutical company rep-- er, I mean, health care provider-- and get some drugs-- usually Effexor, Paxil or Welbutrin. Or you can buy a Happylite. Disinclined to pollute my system with synthetic chemicals as I am, I turn on my own Happylite while I'm getting dressed in the mornings. It provides an incremental improvement, perhaps, but let me tell you: turning on a lamp ain't no kinda cure.

I still feel like crapity-poo-- *most* of the time. This year's affliction seems to have brought a whole host of new experiences, though. As I said, winters past have left me tearful and blubbering. But this year, the only thing that seems to make me cry is trying, frustratedly, to put words to my generally pisspoor mood. I seem to be stuck in this wretched, limbic status that is both restless and stagnant. Mornings, it takes a concerted act of will to wrest me from my bed, another to pick out work-appropriate clothes (i.e., not lounge pants and tank tops), and yet another to don coat, scarf, boots, and earmuffs so as to prevent my ass from freezing off on the mile-long walk to the metro. Actually getting out the door? Daily, it's a minor miracle that that happens at all. And then when I get home at night, I can barely peel myself from the sofa to do simple things like putting the water on for tea, changing out of those skeptically chosen work clothes, and, well, getting up to go pee. And writing? Pfff. Not even an option-- just a nagging placard decreeing that I'm not living up to my potential swinging in the place where the writing should go.

And though I'm nightly rotting into my furniture, my head spins with all am I not doing. Day and night, I am not writing, I am not applying to Ph.D. programs, I am not being productive enough at work, I am not paying my bills, I am not grocery shopping, I am not replacing watch batteries, I am not making plans for dinner with friends, I am not managing the dust bunny situation in my house. But I sure am *thinking* about all that crap. Thinking about -- and not doing-- chores has begun to feel like a full-contact sport. My lower back aches with it. And though I am that restless and that bored, the will to remedy the situation evades me.

But this year's shiny new S.A.D. symptom seems to be the fury. I may generally be a spunky girl (some might even say "spicy"), but I'm not really an irritable or angry girl. I'll get righteously indignant now and again. And I'll even get spouting-off cunty every once in a while. But snappish, edgy, cranky and annoyed? Unceasingly? I hardly know myself.

Regularly, I've busted myself swearing under my breath at people who don't know the stand-on-the-right-walk-on-the-left metro station escalator rule. I've also cursed out my purse strap about a hundred times-- the damn thing is constantly sliding down my shoulder when I'm wearing a heavy coat and, for some reason, that really ticks me off. And if you are a boy in my life right now, heaven help you. If I haven't said something abjectly, childishly horrible to you in the last couple of months, you clearly haven't been hanging around me enough. None of you seem to have done anything that I would perceive as an affront, so I don't know precisely why it's you boys who are on my nerves so much. But you are. Just so you know, you weren't imagining it when you thought, maybe, I might be looking at you like I wanted to punch your face in. I did. I really ... did.

I'm sorry. The amorphous, unnameable crazy made me think it.

And that's the thing about S.A.D.-- though it affects my emotional equilibrium first and foremost, it still feels acutely physical. Last summer, when I was changing jobs, buying a condo and moving into said condo, I was really stressed out. My mood was erratic because my life was erratic. Something was actually wrong. But with this, nothing's amiss at all. I've settled into both job and home. Most of my relationships feel at least tentatively peaceful-- even the one with one the person from whom I'm vaguely estranged. And even in this precarious economy, I feel secure in that my day job is not only necessary, but its necessity is expanding. Seriously. Not a damn thing is wrong.

And yet I feel... crazy. I wish there was a less dramatic word for it, but I can't think of it. Irrational, maybe. Like I just can't quite get a hold of my own senses. Like they're vibrating in a wind tunnel and keep blowing up past my grasp. Like the crazy is a gory, little underskin carbuncle and if I could just dig my thumbnails deep enough under it, I'd be rid of it in a phantasmagoric splush of gunk. But I can't, so it continues to rankle. Stupid fucker.

But it's March. Blessed be March. Last March, I wrote 20 blog posts as the lengthening days spurred me into an exuberant streak of productivity. I have hope for this month, I really do. I so prefer being nice to people who are undeserving of my wrath. I'm sure anyone who's been putting up with me lately is eager for the first flush of le printemps as well.

Not much longer now, mes amis.

English-Plus!

There's an important bill on the ballots in my hometown of Nashville, Tennessee today. Because I know that several amongst my small smattering of readers hail from that very city, I feel I'd be remiss if I didn't bring it up-- especially in light of all the high global and American community spirits currently aloft in my adoptive city of DC.

There is a group of citizens who've got bees in their bonnets about government services being conducted in languages other than English. They've brought forth this so-called English-Only bill to enact some dubious legislation that will prevent non-native English speakers from recieving services in their own tongues. Now, the impetus behind this bill is fear-- fear that the "fur-eigners" will take over; fear that, because so many immigrants will work for less money than born and bred Amurikuns, said Amurikuns will lose their gainful employment to these nefarious interlopers. Now, I could go on and on about how these fears are unfounded (we spoiled Americans are pretty effin' reluctant to fill all those thankless, menial brazero positions after all, aren't we?) but there's really no need. I can sum all that up by saying the bill is ethically questionable at best and a logistical nightmare at worst. In a best case scenario, it'll cost the city budget gajillions in added costs incurred while coping with skein after skein of brand new (totally needless) red tape.

It's important that my Nashville readers do their part for voting this thing down. My mom's been on her soapbox about it every time I've talked to her in this past month. My dad gives me poll numbers whenever I speak with him. And Jon. Well, Jon's been posting regularly about it for months, with some particularly interesting bits in the last 10 days or so.

Actually, I would have been harping about this here on my own blog much earlier, but my biggest source for links, information and commentary about it has been... Jon's blog. And well, dear readers, please forgive this: my impending over-share. As Jon's and my complicated relational enterprise came to a relatively abrupt end a few weeks ago, I've been reluctant to link him-- which is one part petty, one part self-preservation. On a daily basis, I'm still cycling through a regular rotation of disconsolate sadness about the demise of our conflicted association, hot rage at him for any number of perceived affronts, and nauseated irritation with myself for still feeling so passionately emotionally involved in the whole thing. He's been my closest human spirit for the last four years and this is a trying period of detachment. I made plane reservations for my annual excursion to the Nashville Film Festival last week and I'm experiencing something of an onslaught of mixed feelings at the prospect of attending the festival without him as my companion. The last thing I need to have happen is for the simple act of my linking pertinent, trenchant information from his blog to stir up some pit of uneasily salivating attack dogs from deep within me. The second-to-last thing I need is his interpreting a passing on of political commentary as an invitation to engagement of some sort. It's not. Really.

So, I know this post is an emo mess. That is, in part, I have no doubt, due to that fact that I'm feeling pretty deeply mired in my annual winter funk-fest at the moment. I may or may not have some more to say on how much January in DC sucks in a future post.

But nonetheless, I hope I can catch a couple readers before the polls close. Please. Go read Jon's posts. He's far more versed in the nuances of this thing than I am, so he sounds a lot smarter than I would if I tried to recount it all in my own words. And then go vote this thing back to racist-hell from which it came. Go!

UPDATE: As you can tell from the comments, this amendment did NOT pass. Now non-native English speakers can continue to receive 911 care with the aid of a translator. See? Nashville's not so heartless after all.

de facto hiatus

It's not that I really have intended to stop writing. It's just that it seems I can't. I have ramblings I'd like to express and films I'd like to discuss. But I can't.

As I think I mentioned a few posts back, this Seasonal Affective crap has really thrown me for a loop this year. And yes, it's a real thing. Palpably real. And miserable.

Actually, it hasn't been this bad since my freshman year of college, when I'd just moved to New Jersey and the snow didn't ever completely melt from the middle of October until the beginning of May. I really thought I was losing my marbles. The only comparable experience I've had was when I decided it would be a good idea to screw around with my usually very evenly regulated hormones (i.e., I went on The Pill for 6 months-- never again!).

So, nothing's wrong. I don't make enough money and my job alternates between frustrating me and boring me and, of course, I seem to be entangled in some typically unconventional relational situations (or, at least, I'm entangled in my own head. Participation of others is subject to interpretation)-- but none of that is any different from the usual year-round rhythms of my life.

But I can't stop crying. I wake up and I feel ok, even though my sleep cycles are even more out-of-whack than usual (typical fire-sign insomnia, exacerbated) and then I get into my car to drive to work and the only thing preventing me from falling apart is the simple vanity that I don't want to show up at work with mascara rings under my eyes. Or I get to work and manage to hold it together through the morning hours, but I soon find myself staring spacily at the grid on my office ceiling, willing the tears away (I will not cry at work. I will not cry at work. I will not cry at work.). Or, I proudly soldier through an entire work day and then I collapse into passionate, unweildy sobs as I navigate Georgetown traffic on my way home.

And still, nothing is ACTUALLY wrong, other than my brain chemistry being all half-mast and off-kilter. About the only reprieve from feeling sad that I've been getting is when I feel frustrated and annoyed that I'm so sad all the time. Frustration and annoyance are clearly preferable to this other overwrought, heightened, interminable sadness. Clearly.

Either way, I feel crazy.

And it doesn't help that it's just barely mid-December and the DC area has already seen a significant snowfall and another is predicted for this weekend. Nor does it help that I can't actually remember the last sunny day we had here.

Nor does it help that I arise in the dark, leave my apartment shortly after sunrise (spending a grand total of 25 or so seconds outside as I walk to my car), park in a garage underneath my office building, elevator up, work all day in an office with no windows, elevator down, drive home after dark and spend another 25 or so seconds walking from my car to my apartment. Clearly, three quarters of a minute is not adequate time for my retinas to register enough sunlight to create a sanity-sustaining serotonin level in my puny frenzy of a brain.

I am a mole-rat.

Most of the time, I can manage a little yogic trick. If I adopt the stance of the objective spectator in relation to my own self, I can watch myself feeling so sad, realizing it's a physiological sort of sad (as opposed to a psychological sort), and muster enough sense to realize that I'll weather the storm-- but even this variety intellectual detachment doesn't much help me turn off the friggin' waterworks. It's merely a management tool and does little in terms of solving the problem.

So, thank god the winter solstice is only 10 days away. I can only hope that, as the days begin to lengthen, I'll be able to think like a person again-- and maybe write something of substance.

Until then, fair reader(s).

yeah, yeah, yeah, 9/11. But also...love and the lost self

It seems that a number of typically snark-jock movie critics really seem to like Reign Over Me. It's true, the real allure of Adam Sandler resides in his characteristic cocktail of rage, self-loathing and soulfulness. And, at last, this film is a real showcase for those aspects of his soul. He's subtle and funny and furious and it really works. For once, viewers can, perhaps, put Opera Man out of their heads while watching... not that I really have anything against Opera Man, per se. I'm of the camp that concedes that some of Sandler's deconstructionist comedy in the SNL Weekend Update segments were really fairly innovative. However, this piece is about character, not rule-breaking, and he carries it pretty well. It's no doubt he won some critic-fans with the role-- and the film.

However, all the reviews discussed the barely-scabbed-over lives of those whose families were affected by 9/11-- and how sensitive a story this movie is... blah, blah, blah. Sure, I guess it IS sensitive, but, just for the sake of argument, let's take 9/11 off the table. What if this were just a story about a couple of guys who've conceded some portion of their selfhoods to their relationships?

I've oft heard a very female lament about the girl who marries her dreamboat of choice and then winds up "losing herself" to the relationship, sacrificing her identity, her soul, her likes and dislikes, for the purpose of being the wife HE wants her to be. Oprah is a big pusher of the notion of the tragic narrative of the just-can't-say-no girls. I've had friends complain about having lost track of some aspect of identity when ensconced in a romantic relationship-- and I think I might even have phrased my own complaints similarly (though, in retrospect, I know I have most often been the one to force concessions from my partners--having a strong personality sometimes breeds some curious obliviousness), but I've wondered: what of the men who no longer recognize themselves, so lost are they in the daily morass of gesture and habit and ritual? Surely, assimilation into a relational unit couldn't possibly be a single-gendered activity, could it?

And along comes this movie. In it, we've got two guys. One guy loses his wife and three daughters (it's significant that all three kids are female, I think) to one of the passenger projectiles that have since entered our lexical commonality. As a result, he devolves into some crazy amalgam of automaton, ghost and rabid wolf. Simply put, without his family, his female flotilla, he has no real self left. When they were alive, his life was full because of them. And without them, there really isn't much man to spare. And the other guy, well, he still has his wife-- and two female children. But as a result of his "putting family first," he's manifested such a disconnect with his own desires, his own identity, that he begins to foment a fairly expected variety of resentment towards his wife.

Now, the solution to this problem is really the hinge of the plot. Both men seek refuge from domesticity in each other and, because they each adopt this outlet, they are able to return (or at least begin to heal in order to return at some point in the future) to some modified version of the family fold. Easy. Total cake. It's a reasonable and real-life solution to the emotional deprivation experienced by some men. And it works. But, it's also not all that interesting to me.

What is interesting, however, is the set of social constructs that create the types of ravenous hunger so readily apparent in these men. To be fair, I'm sure this aspect of the film's emotional tenor stuck out to me because I've been reading Laura Kipnis' book Against Love: A Polemic of late. This is a book that would be incendiary if it were required reading for the population at large, but, as it is, it's more like a flagpole sporting some tattered rag outside a seedy bar on the fringes of town. It rages about the ways in which conventional companionate co-habitation squelches our emotional lives and lulls our libidos into sad little stupors. The book wants more for us than so-called wedded bliss. It wants actual bliss. And I suppose I'm reading it because I, too, want actual bliss-- for myself and for the people (plural) with whom I fall in love. And so I read books that swear up and down that that which is packaged as blissful (love, stability, monogamy) is actually the enemy of the temporality and flightiness of real, mindful fun. I keep hoping that if I resist that which feels like it might entrap me or own me, I'll find a new transgressive joy. So far, so good. No, wait: so far, so occasionally good. It's a trepidatious mountain passage at best.

But anyway, I look at the stories of these two men-- one who is a veritable wraith of loss without his primary relationship and one who can barely speak, so gagged by the confines of being a "good father" or "good husband" or even "good man" is he-- and I am fascinated by the meandering avenues through which their marriages lead them-- and deposit them squarely in their respective marital miseries. Sure, they find their ways out again (via the flip-side of the self-same love that drove them to despair in the first place, mind you), but it is the insularity of love that is the problem for each. I can't help but wonder: if these two men dedicated a little less of themselves to their primary relationships-- and a little more to a legitimate pursuance of bliss? Would they feel so stranded and without recourse when those primary relationships wind up NOT being the be-all-end-all? Would they feel so alone, were they not so protective of their own emotional fidelity? If they put a couple of eggs in other baskets? Who's to say?

I would like to understand more about men's emotional lives. Though male actors continue to dominate the screen, rarely do we find filmic plumbings of male loneliness, detachment, estrangement, and ache for simple human connection of the nature found in Reign Over Me. I won't say that it goes this distance flawlessly-- it occasionally waxes maudlin and, frankly, it overshoots in terms of subplots and connectivity of narratives-- but at least it's trying. At least it's attempting to represent the ways in which the conventional social institution of marriage fails these guys in terms of their rawest, simplest emotional needs. It's supposed to be another diary page from the post-9/11 New Yorker. Ultimately, national tragedy is just a backdrop here. Because I came to this film with Kipnis in my head, I'm having a hard time seeing the real subject matter as other than how these men fight for stability in a landscape in which the bedrock of relational love swims in and out of their reach.

Another concession: the time-change has hit me like a brick. I'll acclimate soon, surely. But for now, I've had a week of imagined heartbreak and utter listlessness. Oh, sunshine! Oh, serotonin! How I miss you. This Seasonal Affective bullshit is a bitch. Time to fire up the Happy Lite again. So, apologies if I, too, am waxing overly maudlin. It's been a weird and weepy week. At least I can blame it on body chemistry, rather than real problems.