You might say it’s Dickensian.

My mood is not great in the best of winters, and this is not the best of winters. This may, in fact, be the worst of winters. I’m not sure. The point is, seasonal depression plus regular depression plus election-related angst (the cherry on top of the depression sundae, if you will) has all settled in for its long winter’s nap in my brain.

Sometimes I’ll say this kind of thing out loud to the wrong people and they will look very concerned and they will say the thing that I hate more than any other thing, which is: “How can I help?”

Oh god, that is the worst thing. Don’t do this. Don’t be this person. I don’t know how you can help. If I could come up with that kind of targeted plan, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Like, maybe you can help by not making me have to come up with suggestions of things for you to do so that you can feel helpful? It’s like when you get guests who show up early for a dinner party and they say, “Give me something to do!” Dude, if I need help I’ll ask for it. Coming up with a chore for you so that you can feel useful is adding to my workload right now. 1) Baste turkey, 2) get rolls in oven, 3) chop crudites, 4) come up with something for Bob to do so he can feel useful. You just added to my list, friend. That’s not helpful. Don’t add to my list.

I’m basically okay, anyway. I’m functional. I’m getting out of my house, and not just for work. I’m eating too much and sleeping too much and snapping at people too much, but I’m making it.

(Jesus, I am out of practice at doing these posts.)

Thanks, I guess.

I don’t do those daily posts of thankfulness in November. I tried it once, and about halfway through the month I found myself struggling to come up with something to post. Fanning through the index cards of my life trying to find this, that, or the other thing that seems a little better than what other people have, did not seem to be in the spirit of the event.

Which is not to say I’m not thankful for this, that, or the other thing. For example, I’m thankful that the cats have chosen two, and only two, pieces of furniture as their personal scratching posts. I’m thankful for the job that allows us to afford things like the extra 10 bucks for the Douglas fir at the tree farm instead of the Scotch pines that are stabby and picked-over. I’m thankful for em dashes even though I don’t use them much these days. I’m thankful for the guy who runs the Merriam-Webster Twitter account.

It is perhaps not a terrible exercise to force ourselves to think about all of the good and worthwhile things in our lives, just as the light fades from the sky and the leaves fall from the trees and the world shutters itself in preparation for winter. Every winter feels like an ending, and this one I think feels more so than usual. So I’m thankful. For family and friends and food and a few other things starting with F.* I’ll be even more thankful when we’ve survived until spring again.

*Frappucinos, obviously.

Still hate thinking up titles.

I am, it would seem, constitutionally incapable of keeping anything I write. I wrote an online web journal for years, then let the domain expire. And lost the flash drive that had the only backup of all that writing. I started another web journal, wrote in it for a while, let it expire.

I always think that someday I will regret losing all of those words, but I never really do. Mostly what I regret is having to redo the site design when I inevitably decide to start writing online again. Like now.

But the words are ephemeral. I think I don’t really like having a huge amount of writing following me around, like boxes and stacks of paper accumulated in a hoarder’s house. I want a clean slate. It’s the same thing that drives me, every so often, to throw away everything in my house that isn’t nailed down.

I mean, not everything. We keep the books, the artwork. The piano makes the cut. But the binders of old schoolwork, the mementos saved from years’ worth of July 4 and Christmas parades, the outgrown toys, the correspondence…I let it reach a critical mass and then it all goes at once, in a great cleansing purge.

My writing is the same, I suppose.

And at any rate, most of it is still hanging out in the Internet Wayback Machine, if I ever felt inclined to retrieve it.