December always sneaks up on me.
I can see June coming for months.
March is a mottled patch of green amidst the melting snow.
August stands on the horizon waving a maize-coloured flag.
Even the battleship grey of November can be seen from the distance of early fall but I never see December coming.
It’s the month we use to measure all the others and today, I feel a bit lost as I scramble to understand why 2025 was worse than most.
I know others suffered more, lost more, found more, and did more.
Me? I’m still standing but my legs are weak and my emotions are bruised and battered. It seems I’m never far enough ahead of depression’s black dog. Every once in a while, no matter how fast I’m moving, he catches up. I know the signs by now, the ambush of tears, the surreptitious weight gain, the over-sleeping, under-sleeping, always-sleeping siren call of the pillows and blankets. These are all the flashing neon indicators of depression.
For the most of the previous 11 months I’ve nursed my wounds, stood my ground and found joy where I could. Sometimes it was inside kayaks & canoes or beside MBG on forest trails and driftwood beaches. Other times it was beside my dad on the golf course, beside my buddies on the ice, and beside fellow music lovers in the songs of Miss Emily, Joe D and The Wilderness. Outside those moments, it’s been a bit like walking in muddy shoes. I keep kicking away at the dirt but it keeps accumulating. You can’t outrun the muck and the more you try, the slower you move. Today, as I wade through the month I never see coming, I’m trying to understand where all this mud came from and how the black dog found me again.
I could point to a few small things; health challenges and family clashes to name a couple, but the biggest factor is the bully down south. It’s hard to imagine how, after all the damage he did in his first term, the American people could possibly have put him back in charge but they did and what ensued from January 20th onward has been a downward spiral of hatred, racism and misogyny. He gave the worst people immunity from persecution. Those that judged others for their skin colour or their ethnicity or their gender used to be shunned to the darkest corners but the orange bully has allowed them to breed like cockroaches and they’ve infested every crevice of our life. I thought I could just move forward, safe in the knowledge that he and his creepy followers couldn’t infiltrate my country, my Canada, but they did. In a tangled nest of tariffs and lies and ridiculous notions he shut down a way of life for many in manufacturing and trade. For others he created massive barriers to happiness. We fought back as best we could with our elbows up, but fighting a bully is exhausting. He’s always waiting for you around the corner or down the street and if it’s not him, it’s his minions; opportunists swarming over you to sell their soul for a quick buck.
Some days I felt stronger and I fought back but lately my boots are too heavy to lift and putting one foot in front of the other has become nearly impossible. I know I’m not alone. I know that others have struggled in futility and frustration. I wish I could tell you I see a light shining somewhere in the distant days of January or February but I don’t. As long as that hateful orange bully has a pulpit and followers willing to sell their soul in his name, the dark and muddy ground will never disappear. The only advice I can give is to find the joy where you can and keep your boots on the ground.