T.S. Eliot says that April is the cruelest month. I think February is. I always go into a deep funk in February. Lest you think it’s self-fulfilling prophecy, I will tell you that the funk happens, and it is often not until I am well into it before I realize that it’s February. Last week I fell into a funk totally out of proportion to my life’s circumstances. Today I had one of those V-8 commercial slaps to the forehead realizations: It’s February.

Note, too, that I am not the only one who has noticed the February phenomenon. I’ve learned from friends and family that they experience it, too. I used to think it had something to do with the seasons; I believe in SAD—seasonal affective disorder—and would probably be gobbling Prozac if I still lived in my grey, wintery hometown. But I live in Florida where there is almost always sunshine. So it’s not the grey skies that are getting to me.

It seems I always carry at least a little melancholy around like a handbag. It  just tends to grow into a carry-on suitcase in February. They want you to take pills and escape your depression. And I am not Tom Cruise-like against that. When thoughts get darkly overwhelming and grow to the size of a steamer trunk, it’s time to get help with carrying the load instead of trying to lug it around by yourself.

I used to try to push depression away. Try to, anyway. It has a mind of it’s own, though, and sometimes it stubbornly refuses to budge. But look around. To some degree depression is a natural response to the state of the world, isn’t it? Is it desirable to escape from or push away such an authentic response? There must be another answer.

A recent scientific study showed  that Middle Aged Misery Spans the Globe and that at my age, my moods should be on the upswing. In this particular February, I am not straining as hard to escape the funk or push it away. Instead, I am trying to listen to what it’s telling me about the world, about my life. I am trying to use it as a tool for transformation rather than something to fear. I am trying to use it as a catalyst rather than something that  should be suppressed. And I suspect that’s why I don’t feel quite so flattened by it.

 Still, whoever decided February should be the shortest month of the year was pretty darn wise.