Winter Blues
Each winter, there comes a point when—frustrated by cold temperatures that seem to bring all drear and no cheer—I feel like an aggrieved adolescent. For a few irrational moments, petulance rules my emotions. I personalize what is clearly not personal, or even possible, somehow believing that the long stretch of days between November and March is a punishment inflicted on me by an angry Mother Nature. The reality, of course, lies in a far more ordinary condition. I am simply one among many who, from late fall until spring, cannot seem to free ourselves from the grip of the “winter blues.”
By Thanksgiving, the steel-gray skies and reduced hours of daylight press like weights on my mood. I know that once the snow stakes its claim over the landscape, my patience will wane; my zeal for spending time outdoors will drift away. Year after year, my resolve fades as I try to embrace the Midwest cold. I just can’t acknowledge the oft remarked upon “beauty of the season,” and instead greet most frigid mornings with a mutter.
Even as a child, winters were tough. My school days began with my stumble toward the steam radiator that pumped out its usual noise in a corner of our kitchen. And those days when I wasn’t off to my job at the bakery at 5 a.m., I was the kid who taxed my mother’s patience by continuing to come downstairs shrouded in a blanket. As I grew older, I learned to better manage my winter routine, as well as my wardrobe, and began investing in wool sweaters rather than relying on my bedding to keep me warm. But even now, feeling rested during “the tunnel months” is a state I only dream about.
In winter, I do not “follow the forecast,” unless forced to—when a family member warns that an impending snowstorm will likely make driving impossible, for instance, or rattles on about a “polar vortex.” In my mind, I hear a voice that is on the defensive. Who cares about the weather anyway? Isn’t it bad enough that spring is not near at hand? To regain a vantage point that makes sense and dispels my crankiness, I remind myself that my response to winter is not unique: the “winter blues” are not the stuff of sufferers’ collective imagination. There is solid research to support what I and others feel, based in reality.
As an example, one widely-accepted theory about what causes the doldrums for so many living in the northern climes proposes that—as with the much more serious and often debilitating condition known as SAD (seasonal affective disorder)—decreased sunlight in the winter months may affect the levels of melatonin and serotonin in our brains, and that this lack can affect our mood and energy level. Recent National Institute of Health data estimate that, on average, six percent of Americans experience seasonal depression, while about fourteen percent encounter the “blues.”
Unlike those who are afflicted with SAD—which is considered to be a type of major depression—we “Winter Blues” folks do not feel down or depressed most of the day, every day. For instance, we don’t withdraw and isolate in ways other than what COVID guidelines recommend. Focusing and performing at work and at home are not defined by struggle. We don’t feel suicidal.
Exercise, sensory stimulation, nurturing the spirit, and taking a break from the news and current events, represent some key ways for combating the lethargy we feel. While these interventions are important for SAD sufferers, too, the distinctions between “the blues” and clinical depression are important, as seasonal affective disorder can grow worse if left untreated. Fortunately, light therapy, medication, cognitive-behavioral therapy, favorable sleep conditions, mindful eating and a solid support network are among the well-studied interventions that can bring relief and better functioning. For those seriously depressed, all—rather than just some of the above—may be necessary.
As a clinical psychologist, I see no value in the “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” corrective that, historically, has been commonly touted, and perhaps is still too widely-pitched. The “blues” and depression are not conditions we heedlessly bring on ourselves. And so they cannot simply be “willed away.”
In this, our dark winter of COVID, it is easy to imagine that the incidence of seasonal mood disturbances is much higher than previously reported. Acknowledging the struggle with them is critical. Seeking support from reliable others is essential, as is providing support when possible: empathy thrives on company, after all.
Strangely enough, my own annual burst of irritability about the sharp winds over Chicago’s lakefront has not yet occurred. Instead, something far more interesting took place one recent afternoon, a revelation so soothing that it leads me to hope I may be lucky enough to remember and draw upon it as a tempering slant when this year’s testiness flares, as it most likely will.
That particular day, as a pot of minestrone simmered on the range, I stood at the kitchen window, my eyes on our pooch as she cavorted through the backyard. Minutes passed, and then, inadvertently, I looked up above the tree line. There, on the horizon, a coral and slate sunset deepened unexpectedly and then, to my surprise, lingered on even a bit longer.
Later, I would learn that “slower sunsets” are common when the winter solstice nears. But that afternoon, as I gazed outward toward nightfall, I found myself transformed into my old five-year-old self, ready to believe that those vibrant colors might never vanish at all; in that instant I was able to marvel at the beauty with something akin to wonder. My perspective had changed, just a bit, even while I acknowledged that the shift in my emotions was undoubtedly temporary. The winter blues are not cured by twilights, after all, no matter how startling.
I smiled to myself, willing for once to indulge in a dip into a reciprocal fantasy. Suddenly, it seemed possible that a benevolent Mother Nature had created this scene to speak to me alone—determined to push back against my belief that she had, in anger, conjured up the icy lake winds solely to torture my cheeks. In the end, when I turned from the window as the sky went dark, I realized it didn’t matter. Without even meaning to, I had been able to enjoy a sunset that frosted snow with its colors. A winter sunset. Perhaps there is hope for me, after all.
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