The days are shrinking. The sun hides more often than it appears, leaving the sky a muted hue, a depressing pallor. Maybe it's the weather. The lack of sunshine, the cold setting in, and the restriction of being stuck indoors. It could be one of these things, all of these things, or something else, but regardless, each year, around this time, I feel the heaviness start to press behind my eyes. That mix of exhaustion, apathy, and inescapable sorrow that makes up my mental illness - depression. I'm aware I carry this issue or obstacle (not really sure what to call it) with me all year round. Yet, when the days grow short and the end of the holidays appear, I always feel the worst. A clear pattern obviously. Perhaps it's some unresolved trauma, which seems likely, because there are wounds this time of year from years past that linger. Unhealed. Open. Old. Could it be the Christmases before, during, and after my parents' divorce? The awkward holidays, once my favorite tim...