Winter Depression
Wednesday, December 21st, 2005
Ocean Beach on a cold, rainy December afternoon. Our sister Eds is visiting for Christmas, so we took her around to see the sights. Having spent less than four months in SF, though, we haven’t hit most of the tourist spots ourselves yet. I still get lost getting to Union Square.
That being said, it’s great having family around for the holidays. I’ve never been really good at Christmas shopping - for most of the past decade or so I’d relied on my sister for that.
Not so much of a gift giver - I’m a bit of a Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. I am not a very good ninong, as my godchildren have discovered to their disappointment.
But then again, I never expected much in the way of gifts myself. I guess to me Christmas vacation meant a few days off from work and a chance to catch up on sleep.
I guess you take things for granted if your family has always been together, has always celebrated every holiday at home, and Christmas just meant we stayed home all day instead of leaving for the office.
This year is the first time in a long, long time (sixteen years or so) that we won’t be spending the holidays together. Three of us here in the US, and the rest of the family back home. I expect a couple of lengthy long-distance phone calls in the offing.
The Scrooge part of my brain is urging me to get some sort of VOIP setup running soon so we can cut down on the phone bill.
Working myself sick (my usual September pulmonary bronchitis has popped
up a couple of months late) and not getting out enough. Bad combination. Ah, well. Honestly, it could be worse.
Yes, I’m a pessimist. Always have been, always will be. I’m not too optimistic about my future in this country (or anywhere else for that matter) but so far I’ve been lucky to have been proven wrong.
So. Maybe this year will be different, maybe a little deprivation will inject some Christmas spirit into my life. Or maybe I’ll become more and more withdrawn into my little selfish world, gradually cutting out people from my life, one by one.
I guess it’s part of growing older. You don’t get excited about things as much anymore. The future isn’t as bright. You don’t even agonize as much about your problems as you did in the throes of teenage angst.
Ah, to be sixteen and in love again. I’d even settle for twenty-one and heartbroken.
Instead I’m thirty-two, and coping with the yearly reminder of my own impending mortality, as I cough up pieces of bloody lung into the sink.
Maybe in ten years or so I’ll look back at these moments fondly. But I guess I can be a little optimistic.
Maybe I won’t live that long.
