Everyone is dealing with it.

During the throes of February, when we’re just about freaking done with the grimness of winter, the lack of sunshine, and the rumour of spring, we’re done. And we’re all dealing with it.

Far be it for me to dismiss that this has been a fairly mild winter in comparison to previous years, but the lack of sunshine is notable. It has been a dark, dreary winter. And it’s raining.

Raining problems. Raining issues. Raining anger. Raining rage. Raining frustration. Raining bitterness. Raining financial woes, and broken promises, and picking fights, and people getting sick and dying and could it just stop freaking raining for just one second.

I realize that many of my blogs touch on sadness, or depression, or screaming into a world of resounding silence. And I’m hopeful that as the weather lightens, so will the mood. But I’d like to believe that my blogs speak to something else – an authenticity we all bloody well share.

“You, too?” said my sister. “Oh my god, yeah, us, too.” And a friend, and an acquaintance. Biting, fighting words. Shortness, and malice, and deleting off Facebook. And finding it okay to be passive aggressive in posts, passing it off as jokes, when really the metaphorical snarl in your tone suggests something else.

Is every bill due?
Is everyone mad at their partners?
Is anyone happy right now?

The bottom line is simply, yes, we are. Under this shroud of pissed off-edness, we’re in here. Under the drama masks of clouded anger, we’re in here. We’re excited for new job opportunities, and we’re elated thinking about booking the cottage again this summer. And we know we’re reacting to the lack of sun, and not solely to the problem that’s presented itself far bigger than it would in say the dead of summer when we’re so relaxed, we’re basically an egg frying on the sidewalk.

Take faith, my friends.

We’ve rounded Valentine’s Day, and we’re about to finish this long weekend. Then we’re off to the races. For us who observe, Shrove Tuesday on the 25th marks the final night before Lent. And that means 40 days until Easter. Just 40. We’re nearly there.

And in the interim, we’ll party like the Irish, and we’ll push the clocks ahead. We’ll book early vacations for summer lovin, and we’ll pat ourselves on the back for another winter well-done.

Let’s just try to get through the next few weeks without killing anyone, okay? Okay.

— c ☆