Is anyone else struggling in January?

Or is it just me?

Photo by Transly Translation Agency on Unsplash

This month has been a struggle—a real uphill, will it ever end type of struggle—and I didn’t want it to be this way.

I went into the new year feeling optimistic. I would take it slow, rest when I needed to, and enjoy the chilly winter days. I imagined myself curling up with a hot chocolate and reading a good book or tapping away on my keyboard, writing my novel while outside the weather did its worst.

I would allow myself treats and good food, enjoying cheeseboards and chocolate and maybe some cake. In my dream of the perfect January, I even became a winter person, delighting in the season, finding something magical and restorative in the cold, dark days.

For the first time in forever, I was ready to embrace January and welcome it into my heart. It was going to be a good month. I had the perfect strategy, and I was ready for everything that came my way.

The snow was the first challenge, the heaviest snowfall we’ve had in Barnsley for years.

‘How lovely,’ I thought, looking out at the white wonderland. ‘It’s so pretty.’

I laced up my walking boots and set off to the stables to sort my horse. It was a Sunday, so at least I had time. Four hours later, chilled to the bone, I walked home, only to have lunch and a cup of tea, before heading back to the stables to put the horse to bed.

As I walked home that night, in the darkness, the snow was quickly icing over, becoming treacherous underfoot.

‘I hope it melts quickly,’ I said to my husband.

It didn’t. Temperatures plummeted, reaching minus five at one point. I dressed in thermal leggings, walking trousers, and about five upper body layers to get to the stables. I went in the darkness, before and after work, the cold biting into my bones.

‘This isn’t fun,’ I said. ‘When will it end? I need it to end.’

The days were long and bleak, the cold relentless.

While I trudged over the ice, five thousand miles away, Los Angeles was burning. The news reports were tragic, and I worried for the world.

This was just week one of January.

I was determined to show resilience of steel and not be defeated, but the blows kept on coming.

The organisers of the BBC Comedy script competition for which I’d made the quarterfinal didn’t take my script through to the next round.

My hormones, which I’d got under control thanks to HRT, suddenly caused chaos again, waking me up and not letting me sleep and I was so very, very tired.

My day job was busier than ever, with a big campaign rapidly approaching, and I tried to pick up the pace, get things done, but it felt like I was flailing.

I completed a video production course, did my first piece to camera and was about to share it on social media when my tech started playing up. The files were too big, even though they weren’t, and social media said, ‘No, you can’t share this video.’

‘Please,’ I begged. ‘Please, please let me upload the file!’

It had taken me ages to write the script, longer to record it and get the filming right—and it was all for nothing. Time and effort wasted.

My hopes for a wonderful January were quickly disappearing. Even doing the basic things became hard work. When I phoned the doctors for a repeat prescription, waiting a good half hour for my call to be answered, I got a telling off for not phoning between 11am and 2pm, or was it 12pm and 3pm, when they do prescriptions.

‘I didn’t know that,’ I said to the receptionist.

‘Everyone knows that,’ she said.

‘Well, I didn’t! And I’m at work. I can’t just down tools and call when you want me to call. Doesn’t anyone else work? Who made up this ridiculous rule?’

I didn’t say any of that, of course. I’m far too polite. I just thought it and hung up.

‘I’m angry,’ I told my husband.

‘I’ve been worried you might murder me,’ he said.

‘Don’t joke,’ I snapped. ‘This month is not over yet!’

And the irony here is that the progesterone tablets I was calling for, and being denied, stabilise my hormones and keep me calm.

By Blue Monday, the third Monday in January and supposedly the most depressing day of the year, my rage had simmered, and despair had taken its place.

I know the whole Blue Monday thing was made up by a travel company wanting people to cheer themselves up by booking a fortnight’s holiday in Fuerteventura or somewhere, but things for me did reach a low on Blue Monday.

‘I don’t get any time to write,’ I wailed. ‘I’ve been so busy I’ve only managed five minutes writing time some days. It’s not enough! I have to write.’

And I sat at the kitchen table and sobbed. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, feeling incredibly sorry for myself.

With my energy depleted and hormones flatlining, I took a deep breath and dragged myself to the gym for a spin class. My legs refused to work beyond 65 revolutions per minute (I normally get up to 150) but I throttled it as much as I could.

Keeping moving and throwing myself into exercise was the only way to get through the depression. I’ve spent hours on the bike, pedalling harder and faster, and I’ve done Pilates and kettlebell classes too.

As my mood lifted, things seemed a little easier and brighter, not quite as bleak. At the stables on Friday morning, it was daylight by 8am and I stood, looking up to the sky, feeling nothing but relief.

‘January is almost over,’ I told my husband. ‘We’ve made it.’

It wasn’t quite the month I’d hoped for, but at least I was back to being positive and hopeful again. The darkness was lifting.

‘There’s just February now,’ my husband said. ‘And that really is a fucker.’

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