It’d be a lie if I said this winter has been easy,
especially while most accounts around here seem to point towards absolute
familial bliss. But in the interest of
remaining transparent, I feel I wouldn’t do this season in our lives justice if
I didn’t point out the underlying struggle we (read: I) have faced these past
months. To begin with, I openly suffer
from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Most
years it’s something we make light of—a temporary funk that is breezed over
with humor and a grain of salt, but this is the real reason I hate February—because
generally, it’s the hardest month of the year for me to get through. Living in the Tri-Cities the past four years was
a blessing for someone who craves the sunlight—300 sunny days a year made for
easy winters—I still got grumpy on those 65 overcast days, but it was kid
stuff, really.
Because we were coming from that sunny extreme, I knew this
winter in Vienna would be much more difficult. So, in true optimist fashion, I
psyched myself up (and upped my vitamin D intake). I took my typical, stubborn Willian approach
and dared Winter to bring it on. Since
the Viennese celebrate Christmas for three months, the days leading up to
Christmas and New Years were a piece of cake.
Snow was charming, lights were twinkling—absolute magic. Through the rest of those cold months I
planned to cling to every birthday and holiday in between like a string of life
preservers leading me towards Spring. I
laid the smack down on Feburary, discovering the joys of Carnival and actually
celebrating Valentine’s Day. When the
festive spirit died down, I invented reasons to celebrate and mentally whisked
my little family away to the tropics.
Apparently I let my guard down in March, because between
John’s birthday and planning a holiday in the mountains I kind of expected the
weather to take a turn towards the sunny side.
Instead, we got more snow…on top of frigid whipping winds and more.
Snow. It was easy to see the fluffy
white stuff as charming (even on Easter) while we were in quaint St. Gilgen…and then we came home…I had muscled through February and clawed my way out of March...now it was April.
And it was still. Snowing.
And that was it. My
little SAD breaking point. I had willed
myself into cheery submission for nearly five months. All it took was that last straw in the form
of a very Viennese (although the adjectives I used at the time were much more
colorful) waiter when I was trying to seek some solace in a solo coffee
break. It felt like turning the other
cheek--every day, all day--for months had culminated in my interaction with this
Herr Ober on a power trip...and I lost it.
I am not one to weep or claim hysterics, but as vicious little
snowflakes stabbed me in the eyes on the way home from that cafe…I arrived. At that place where I might as well have been
on my knees screaming: “Enough! Coach,
I am DONE!”
To at least a small part of my brain’s credit, I did realize
that this feeling of running on empty was totally ridiculous. My mind was racing to think of all the people
being pelted in the face with snow who didn’t have a warm apartment with cute
healthy kids to go home to…people who were at that very moment carrying their worldly possessions on
their back, peddling for change to buy some booze to numb themselves through
the day for a bit longer. I thought of
orphaned babies, human
trafficking victims and Mamas wondering how they would feed their babies.
And it didn’t work.
I
was stuck in a selfish downward spiral where even wailing and unattractively
slobbering on my husband didn’t make a dent. The part of my brain that
acknowledges and accepts basic logic had been overrun by the crazy part of my
brain that could not stop screaming about how the sun would never return and
that the sky would continue to rain down demon-eye-poking snow for. EVER.
I wish I could say that I found some way to snap out of
it…that I dug deep and decided to channel my self-pity into acts of service for
people who actually have a rough life…or that my logical brain laid the smack
down on the mess of crazy that was running rampant…that I found some asinine
reason to celebrate a new day…but all I felt was the sensation of falling
backwards into the abyss. (Yes, this is
accommodating the crazy factor) and at the bottom—a place I haven’t let myself
look at, much less feel, for a very long time—He was there. He didn’t miraculously fix me. He didn’t make the crazy erratic thoughts go
away. He was just there. At the bottom. With Me.
Emmanuel. God with us. And
suddenly, that meant more to me than all the sobering thoughts of human
injustice in this world.
I’m still a little off today, but I’m grounded. Humbled.
Loved. And unfathomably
blessed…even if the sun ceased to shine, I’d still be all those things. This little trip to the bottom of my barrel
hasn’t sucked any of the joy out of those joyful events that helped buoy me
through the darkness.
No comments:
Post a Comment