by Giselle RenardeIt's been a sedentary winter. The cold! The cold! Who would go out in those frigid temperatures if they didn't have to? And I didn't have to, so I didn't. I sat on this couch or in that chair and I wrote stories. Or I slept. Slept a lot. Slept until noon, until one, until two...
Have I mentioned I'm a writer?
Is it really Vitamin D deficiency that triggers the dreaded SAD? I've been taking my D-drops and I've still been D-pressed. I have a theory, although it could be unique to me. Or not. It's all the walking I don't do when it's cold out.
I actually love the winter, but this year was hellishly frigid, if that's a thing. I love snow. I don't mind trekking through it at all--I even went snowshoeing with my sister in January, and that was the happiest day of my winter. It was sunny and the trees (the ones that survived December's ice storm) blocked the wind, so the air actually felt warm enough that I took off my hat and mitts.
My sister tells me that, in Japan, doctors recommend "forest time" when people are stressed. I could really get behind that. Walking is one of my favourite activities. I live in the middle of a city, so I walk in the middle of the city, but Toronto's full of forest. Wherever you are, you can find one. We've got plenty of trees.
I once knew a guy who started walking and didn't stop until he got to Vancouver. Some days I think I could do that, except I'd miss the cats. I'd miss some people, too, but none of those people rely on me to feed them or sanitize their bathrooms. Actually, I could blame the cats most days for my inability to get out of bed. When I wake up, they're still sleeping. On me. My cats sleep on me. And if you've got a cat sleeping on you, how can you get up? It's physically impossible.
My cats are depressed, too, according to my vet. He kind of blames me, which is exactly what I need to hear. Thanks.
There's a gym in my building. I've lived here ten years. Want to guess how many times I've used it? (Did you guess zero? Because the answer is zero.)
I can walk for hours, easily, but not on a treadmill. Outside, in the fresh air--in the forest, ideally. Once I start walking, I never want to stop. I never want to come home. I just want to walk and walk and walk forever. It's hard to turn around.
(By the way, I've got big plans to write a book about depression. Maybe you can help me: http://likeits1999diary.blogspot.ca/2014/04/why-i-want-to-write-book-about.html )