The Long Dark Winter

Advice For Dealing With Seasonal Sadness That Actually Helps

It was early November 2023 when I was crying in a doctor’s office trying to explain what was wrong so she could help. I had been experiencing the worst anxiety of my life and it was becoming unmanageable and all-consuming.

I explained to my doctor how overwhelming running the farm on fumes felt some days. How embarrassed I was that it wasn’t easier, that I wasn’t more successful in a way other people could see. How hard it was making it every month, how lonely it felt when the sun went down. I mentioned how fixated I had become on catastrophic situations that weren’t real, because it was easier than accepting the catastrophic possibilities that were. She handed me tissues as I poured my heart out, a dam breaking.

The more I talked the more she took notes, nodding kindly. I thought for sure she was going to refer me to some psychiatrist that could get me started on anxiety medication. That had to be my problem, right? I was always worried, so I thought anxiety was the monster under my bed.

After I got it all out, the doctor said it sounded a lot more like depression than anxiety. This was news to me, because I didn’t think that was even possible. I had built my own feral dream life, I had what I wanted. I wasn’t depressed I was terrified; my fears about losing the farm were my issues, not some obscure sadness?

Also, depression is a serious disease. It haunted people until they felt hopeless and suicidal. I was functioning. Sure my home was a mess and I couldn’t even see the dust and grime, but I never thought about ending things. I had what was supposed to make me happy. I had a purpose. I still wanted things to happen in my life, desperately so. I couldn’t possibly be depressed.

But I’m also not a doctor. And I trusted her judgment and professional diagnosis. She suggested I try a low dose of a popular antidepressant for a few months and check back in.

I didn’t argue with her.

Life With Serotonin

I started taking Wellbutrin and within a year my life wasn’t recognizable. It was like I had been carrying heavy buckets uphill for years and some invisible god had lifted the yoke. I still had all the same losses, worries, and setbacks; but how I felt about them and approached them changed.

What used to set me into a panic or made me frantic became something to stop and get curious about instead of frustrated. I still felt all the same things, but the volume was turned down. And either through my disposition or chemical makeup - only the bad things got turned down. The good things turned up.

My brain and body started changing. I launched this substack, finally able to get through the fog enough to care to write like I meant it again. I felt like I had real hope to save this farm. I finally had enough daylight break through to try.

I started taking better care of my body, my skin, and my surroundings; the lawn looked nicer, the house cleaner. And small improvements like scrubbing floors raw and fresh paint made the house feel brand new. Things felt like they were starting to get better for the first time in years.

Then February Happened.

A few months into winter and I felt the walls closing in again, even with the medication. Even with new drive, goals, and clearer skin. Even with dignity gifted by people willing to pay for my work—that fog returned.

It wasn’t the same, a dull blade in hand instead of a knife in my chest, but it came back. And we all know how dangerous a dull knife is; you can seriously hurt yourself when your guard is down. I did tell my doctor, and she upped the Rx to a stronger dose, but that temporarily-adjusted euphoria isn’t a remedy.

I started some practices that stopped the sadness. If my depression wanted to fight, it had one hell of an adversary now.