What is it about spring that’s so ungodly depressing?
I’m sure that, to many of you, this seems like a strange statement. Spring is, after all, the season in which the grays make way for vivid greens; when the melodic chirps of the birds return from their warmer climes; when we can finally leave the confines of our cabins and enjoy the great world beyond.
But . . . for as long as I can remember, spring has not just been the harginger of green. It’s also been the bearer of the blues.
I’m sure there’s some terrible Freudian theory about repression or about the awareness of my own mortality to be unearthed there. [Oh, wait. If it were Freud it would have to be about pooping or sex, n’est-ce pas?] I really don’t know what it is. My birthday? The end of the school year? The Ghost of Christmas Past?
Whatever it is, I’m glad to note that I’m back on the upswing of things again. And, now that I’m aware of the pattern, maybe I can just up my meds for the season.