A little “darkness” deserves a little depression party
For us, in the Yukon and across the North, the lack of winter sunlight has an impact on our lives.
When my newly-arrived European renters moved in, we discussed what they should expect from their first winter in Canada, never mind in the Yukon. “It will be dark,” proclaimed the father, after a quick, easy chat about snow shovels and propane furnaces.
Yes, it will be dark, and in the movie version of this conversation we would joke about “going into hermit mode” to cope with the winter darkness. “Beer or chocolate are helpful for some,” I finally said to the epicurean newcomers.
For us, in the Yukon and across the North, the lack of winter sunlight has an impact on our lives. Many of us suffer from the darkness, from SAD (seasonal affective disorder). SAD is a type of depression that occurs during the same season each year, with signs and symptoms akin to major depression, according to the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, Canada’s largest mental health teaching hospital. It seems to be caused by changes in the amount of sunlight (Hello, north of 60 winters). Short of sending my renters to Miami, the seasonal change is completely out of our control … So what gives?
Throughout the years with Yukon friends, we’ve developed a new practice to fight SAD: the depression party. It usually happens in mid-December when SAD already lives rent-free in our minds. The depression party is not a Christmas party, nor a solstice celebration. It’s the nemesis of winter blues.
The format is as follows: We pick a weekend, during which we will move, play and eat together. We start the party in the early afternoon, during the best hours for a long ski or walk, then gather for a copious dinner and play games into the night. At that point, some will head home while others might stay for a sleepover. A morning brunch follows on the next day, with one more outside activity. People are free to come and go, attend one activity but skip the next. The party has been hosted in people’s houses, in a heated garage and, once, in a heated teepee.
When everything from work to workouts becomes unbearable in December, salvation matters more than location.
One year, after a particularly bad bout of SAD sleeping troubles, I connected with my friend, the party host, telling him I am not going to come because “I am being crabby and moody lately.”
His response came quickly: “Just a little crabbier than normal. Nobody will even notice … You should come.”
This is the essence of the depression party. You come as you are. Not only that, you don’t need to pretend to enjoy yourself or that the food is miraculous. Speaking of grub, bringing something to share at the party, à la potluck style, is de rigueur (it is something you should do). But if your mood behaves like flat spaghetti during SAD, cooking might be a struggle. Then a store-bought warm baguette and a nice cheese will be more than enough.
“Don’t micromanage the menu,” I was warned when, a few years ago, I attempted to coordinate a three-service dinner for the party. We ended up with three different desserts and more crackers than we knew what to do with. And who cares?
This party also puts us in a better position to go head-to-head with the holiday season. Christmas can stir up bad memories or a sense of loneliness. You are ready to ride high after a “mood aid” from the depression party. Everyone is also free to attend their own competing parties from family and other friend groups, later in December. It’s a guilt-free party. If so inclined, you can even get an early start on your resolutions, without the rose-tinted glasses that the New Year brings. “I don’t have much bullshit in my life,” said one friend who was attending the depression party, “but I could still work on cleaning up what’s there.”
You don’t need a big group to have a depression party. Maybe you don’t need anyone at all. Winter blues travels solo, and solitude walks are great weapons in one’s parka (so is a Lindt milk-chocolate bar and a Belgian beer).
