Often, around this time of year, distressing things start happening to stuff around me. All the books seem full of teeth-grindingly beautiful and brave heroines, or plotlines that go around and around in circles, or people that say things like 'you do, do you?' (Good CHRIST, why would anyone ever use that as a line of dialogue? It's like a special palindrome for douchebags.) When I open the cupboards, cans of soup and jars of taco sauce throw themselves out trying to commit suicide. Dishes come out of the dishwasher with Cascade-scented tearstains on them.
Okay, maybe it's just me. I would say "for as long as I remember", but for the longest time I was totally unaware of the unparalleled forces of suckiness that were always unleashed in January. So I can't even call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. I would get through Christmas, get back in the swing of things, going merrily along, and suddenly wonder why I found myself huddling under the bathroom sink cuddling a can of Drano at one in the afternoon. Or I would be washing dishes and listening to music, and think, 'hmm, this is productive and enjoyable. I wonder why I'm going over coffin models in the back of my mind?'
Granted, January's not a pretty month. But I like snow. I don't mind cold. Theoretically it's a good time to do some pre-spring cleaning while putting away Christmas stuff. But for some reason my consciousness just wants to take a long winter's nap. It's as though I have a big, spiky, heavy mass in my stomach. If I sit very still, it doesn't hurt too much. The more I try to move and act, the more it thrashes around ripping stuff up.
It's okay. Everybody's got their thing. I try to save what agency and energy I can muster up for my kids, so they don't suffer too much. But I don't have a whole lot extra, and it seems like I should be doing more. More than just trying not to disappear.