Small deaths

I'm not a winter person. Trust me, I've tried to be all these years living in Worcester, Boston, New Haven, the Berkshires, but I just never "got into it" so to speak. And every year, my feelings against this season grow more embittered and angry so that by, oh, let's say mid-January, I'm crawling up the walls with ticks and snaps. And the idea that this won't end until March (at best) is, well, pretty depressing. I take at least 9 supplements EVERY NIGHT to combat the terrible effects of winter; Vitamin D, B-complex (this is more for overall mental health, which clearly is not my forte), Fish Oil (which I thought at first was a suppository, luckily my 80-year-old grandmother clued me in), Iron (anemic Cherokee blood), Feverfew (puking migraines if I'm not careful), Melatonin (I'm a writer, I don't actually have a sleep cycle), Kava Kava (I'm f***ed up, this tends to take the edge off). Anyway, you get the point.
"At least you're trying," is my therapist's little encouraging mantra.
"You mean trying not to kill myself or someone else?"
"Do you feel suicidal?" She already had her pen in hand, ready to give me the hotline number.
"No, no, I was being dramatic." I guess they're trained to be on the alert. A lot.
I take walks, sometimes hikes if the wind doesn't blow me right the hell off the mountain. The walks just end up pissing me off because I never wear enough to keep me warm. Truckers beep at me, which I find hilarious. What do they think, I'm gonna strip down and jump in the cab for a quickie? It's 1 degree outside and you're 5oo pounds. Probably not, buddy.
I give them the finger if I can feel my hands.
Oh, look at that. The sun is peaking through just a tiny bit. Maybe I'll stand in that part of the yard and pretend....
That I'm on fire.