I cannot remember the last time I sent a holiday card. It probably wasn’t that long ago—I usually try to get at least a few out to people who don’t use email or social media—but my sense of time is so skewed these days. Blame menopause or (and?) COVID, as both have been bears to deal with. (Clearly, the former is more present than the latter, but shutdown really messed with my ability to know what day and year it is and how much time has passed since events occurred.) And despite my intentions—EVERY YEAR—to sit and write holiday cards, I don’t.

Which means I’m not prioritizing the cards, right? I understand this surface-level reason for my inability to send cards. I really do. What I’ve been resistant to is digging below the surface and unearthing what it is about card writing that appeals to me so little the act doesn’t make it to the to-do list.

Yesterday morning, after a very long December filled with medical appointments and procedures and emergency department visits (everyone is fine, thank you), I decided to take on the digging, and I asked myself, Why, if I can manage to do all that I do in a day, can I not write a single Christmas card? Why don’t I prioritize reaching out to friends and family I’ve known for years and let them know I care? (Because I do care. I care very much.) What exactly is the problem? What’s keeping me from writing the doggone cards? (Aren’t you impressed I’m keeping this family friendly? Consider it holiday present #1.)

In order to answer those questions fully, I need to pull back and reveal some backstory. Depression runs deep in my family. I won’t go into who is affected by it—I’m not here to violate any HIPPA laws or anything—but I’ve always been aware that at some point, regardless of my positive outlook, my attention to healthy eating, and my insistence on daily exercise, that depression might creep up on me in ways I couldn’t anticipate. I flirted with it back in college and made some changes to my lifestyle. The same thing happened after having my third child, but I was lucky enough to find some coping mechanisms that worked. Then, the end of 2021 rolled in, and my youngest’s health became an issue. In fall 2022, my mom passed away, and my dad’s vascular dementia worsened. Some of my children were in college, others in high school, and anyone who has had children knows that parenting teenagers and young adults requires more physical and mental energy than anyone ever told us it would. Despite going to therapy, despite the exercise, despite the list of good things in my life, something was missing. So, I made an appointment with my GP.

Like any excellent GP should do, we discussed what was going on in my life, whether I’d tried therapy and exercise and meditation and all the rest, and what my options were. And when I scored a relatively high number on the in-office mental health questionnaire the GP said, “Based on how you walked into my office, I would have thought your score would be lower. I was ready to tell you to keep doing what you’re doing and that meds might not be the right choice. But now, I’m rethinking my stance.”

I laughed and said, “I present well, don’t I?”

It wasn’t a laughing matter, though. Presenting well is my specialty. I have always seemed, on the outside, good, even great, by society’s standards. Competent, content, put together. Nothing to see here. Keep on moving. But if anyone has the opportunity to look inside and spend time there, they’ll see the chaos. The gray clouds. The static that often stops me in my tracks.

Long story short, the GP prescribed sertraline, and we tweaked dosages until we found the right one (which, thankfully, didn’t take long). Since that time, I’ve taken the medication daily—though I do have trouble remembering to do so—and I’m still exercising regularly and seeing the therapist every few weeks.

So, back to the original question, What is keeping me from writing the doggone holiday cards?

Well, like everyone else, I juggle a lot of things from day to day, and juggling isn’t something I like to do. I prefer to tackle one item at a time and then begin another. See something to fruition and then move on. And yet, my life isn’t designed in a way that I can do that. I usually flit from one task to another, not because I like to but because I’ve learned that’s the easiest way to cope. I’ve talked before about my fifteen-minute solution. I use it for everything, from writing to cleaning. It allows me to chunk my overly stimulating life into manageable pieces. Now that I’ve thought about it, I understand that sertraline helps me with the chunking, allows me to look at one thing at a time (at least for a brief moment) so that I view everything as tiny pieces of ice instead of one large iceberg. Unfortunately, I’ve come to realize that sertraline also numbs me a little, which means if I don’t find joy in an unnecessary, task, I don’t do it.

And guess what? I no longer find joy in writing holiday cards.

What I do find joy in is blogging, and so here’s holiday present #2, this wish for all of you. Whether you celebrate secular or religious Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Festivus, Sol Invictus, anything else, or nothing at all, I wish everyone a peaceful end of the year, health and happiness, good fortune and grace. I wish for you love and light, fun and joy, hot coffee and ice cold water. A home over your heads and food in your refrigerator. Warm socks and even warmer hugs. And to know that, if you need something, I’ll be here—even if I don’t send holiday cards.

Thanks for reading, thanks for listening, and thank goodness for sertraline. And friends, remember to be well and be kind.

Image of tradition theme  by Aliaksandra from Pixabay.com.