December is a tough month. It’s rife with depression and anxiety, when unanswered text messages feel like a state of emergency and minor slights gain momentum over and throughout my entire psyche as the sky starts to darken at 4pm. I try to implement my usual suspects of supplements with St. John’s Wort and 5-htp, but I doubt that these homeopathic treatments can help if you only do them one time. I feel hopeless so I cancel workouts and comedy shows. My nose won’t stop running and I can’t stop running from my problems but this all might be alleviated if I fucking took up running, however this is the last thing I would want to do, as the streets are slick with rain and the real cold that los angeles is capable of at times starts to seep into my bones.
The fact is, I am not depressed. I am not a depressed person. Not in the least. My life is joyous and fun, and really pretty easy. I just cut myself shaving sometimes, but i also get lots of tattoos, dance and sing, eat everything. Yes sometimes I have allergies but it’s amazing what has come out of my nose, and it’s a testament to the strength of my immune system and how my body wants to protect me from the world’s pollutants.
It’s just a lack of light that is a problem, and as photosensitive an individual I am, with all these incredible tattoos from the best artists in the world and the lifelong rosacea that has kept me from beaches, decks and the pools the world over, I realize I still need sunlight like a plant or a bush or a tree. There is chlorophyll in my veins and I am no evergreen so I need the sun like I need a hole in my head and I need it more when the days are shorter and the nights are longer and its cold out.
I have always thought I was a night person, due to the constraints of my chosen occupation as a standup comedian and this is a frightfully inept misdiagnosis. I am unbelievably diurnal, actually kicking off covers when the sun makes its first appearance in the sky, no matter where in the world I happen to be, and feeling desperate for my bed at the lengthening of shadows that indicate night is about to fall.
Whenever I am forced to stay up past 11pm I actually start panicking, as if the day has gone beyond my capacity, as if I am running on empty. Sleep is the fuel that I need, the big gas station in the bed, in the deep blue space beneath my shut eyes, where I go without fail every night, my favorite destination. I count sheep and I count the hours and I count myself cheated if these hours are not in the double digits. I love sleep to the point where I am sure I could spend two or three days in the bed or more. I haven’t tried this, but when days are as short as they are of late it might not even be worth getting up. Now this sounds like real depression but it’s not I don’t think. I am just bear-like and wanting to hibernate and I am pretty sure I have had enough meals in me so far this year to endure an entire chilly season in my cave.
I should probably get a light box and then my mood might improve. I wonder if you can hook one up to the screen of your laptop, or if the Macbook provides light enough to stave off the winter blues. It is the day that breaks when I flip the screen open, and the glow from it is so lively and bright I am sure it can sustain me.