A November Longer Than January
A Happy Halloween! Spell to Ride Out Depression and Despair
I haven’t posted a real story or recipe here for quite some time. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. Actually, I just published two books—a fantasy (Shadow & the Cobra) and the nonfiction Magik: How Witches Save the World. And I’ve been baking and cooking my eyeballs out, as well as doing a few paintings here and there. Also, I went to Wales with my son, Paul, in May, for a fantastic trip, the nodes of which will surface in my fourth novel in The Chronicles of Diana Atestesso series, coming to your bookshelf in a year or so.
So, no creative blocks.
Miasma
Since last December, it became clear that the Asshat Jackwagon would be elected. Oh, the tease of summer/fall hope that Kamala and Tim gave me! Then the decrepitude that is the American electoral process snatched it away, plunging me into a deep depressive spiral.
I’ve been struggling for a year now with horrendous anxiety and depression. Mind you, none of it was triggered by gender dysphoria. Nope. I know what the triggers were—the looming terror of being hung out to dry as a trans person in the country I call home.
The world looked so strange to me. At any moment I’d look at things around me, boggled by how this thing we call civilization and life is so … strange. The most deranged jockey living in a fiberglass tree, tripping balls on acid, couldn’t’ve come up with the unreal world I lived in.
Stumble Forward
I slogged through the months till a ghoulish November-5th nightmare on the heels of Halloween made the most terrifying Stephen King novel look like Nancy Drew. Through November, I had to do what
(Heather Havrilesky) counsels:Stumble forward, into this wicked autumn hour, almost defeated, every awkward footfall a resolution, every inch of progress a clumsy victory. You are an ugly catastrophe, an old house collapsing, a fury of limbs and longing, rage and regrets, windowpanes and doorknobs, nails and splinters, whipped up into a tornado and carried into the future, ass over ankles, fridge over floorboards, daydreams over despair.
Nails it. I have to ride out depression. Which doesn’t make it feel better. I know the fit will end, but in the throes of it, the agony feels like it fits too well. It clings and envelopes till I can’t see me, only wretchedness unrelieved by any soothing voice and sane words from loved ones. In fact, the pain arms me with hellacious arguments for why I’m doomed, no matter what anyone says. Messenger meet killer. Ask Pam. She’s been slain countless times, even though I know she’s right. She, of anyone (including and especially myself), delivers the best love, support, and comfort in those dark hours … only to get doomsday Babs for her efforts. No good deed goes unpunished, eh?
Pointless Resolutions
And I can’t stop myself from acting on the spiraling plunge in my heart. Making resolutions that I’ll flee the country, or fight even when they put me into a reeducation camp, or actually try to enjoy the music of the Osmonds (brrrrr). Anything but hating myself or forcibly detransitioning, both of which amount to the same thing.
In such tailspins, the only thing on wings at the edge of feeling and thought is that I’m still here to think and feel. Even if it’s misery.
I Can’t Predict the Future
I’ve no idea what’s actually going to happen. I’ve plotted all the out-of-control scenarios. Unlike others who live in states like Texas, Florida, and other Republican hotspots, I’m in Colorado. I’ve a circle of friends and loved ones who stand by me, even when I drip with loathing at my potential fate. But still, the agents in The Matrix keep coming at me.
Yes, the month after Halloween became a nightmare longer than the coldest, most interminable January. Transition saved me from self-hatred—and put a target on my back. Something ghoulish seeped out of Samhain and polluted my sense of joy. But it wasn’t of Halloween.
The Antidote
In fact, Halloween and the other Sabbats of the Witch Year are the only antidotes. They won’t take away despair-inducing events. Won’t preempt any disasters to come. Yet, they’ll ride me through being me, even when I’m poisoned in heart and soul till I don’t recognize the world I live in.
I won’t surrender who I am. You see, even in the worst ravages of depression, I still get to be me.
My two-year-old grandson, Nicco, reminded me of that. We visited him last week. His happy dance was to run about the house, singing his cover of Miss Moni’s Halloween song. Mind you, we were on the verge of Thanksgiving. We urged him to yell, “Happy Thanksgiving!”, “Merry Christmas!, or, hell, “Happy Birthday!” even.
His joy was this song. And we sang it at his behest. Again and again and again. (You’re welcome for the insidious ear worm I just gifted you.)
Just like Nicco, I, too, this Thanksgiving, in the bosom of my family, had inconsolable crying jags that no amount of solicitation or distraction could stop me from feeling. You know how a toddler can cry—like the world as they know it has ended.
And it does end. Every moment. And we each have our own Halloween songs to holler, especially when the time or season makes it completely unfitting. Because fitting snugly into despair is no way to live. I can’t—and won’t—sustain it or allow a bunch of asshat jackwagons to make me live that way.
I’ll ride it out. On my broom, I’ll wicked fly. Because, rather than saying “Fuck them!” I can sing something better. “Happy Halloween! I’m still me, no matter what you say otherwise.”
