It is November 7th and I am contemplating putting up my Christmas tree. I know, I’m what’s wrong with America. But, hear me out.

My season depression starts as soon as we turn the clocks back. The sun starts to fade at 4pm. I drive home from work in the dark. The trees are starting to shed. Everything is dark and bleak and I just want to get under the covers and not come out until the end of March, at least. But I can’t do that and I must live with late fall and winter as my enemy. Getting ready for Christmas is a small truce we have.

I’ve already programmed the Sirius Christmas music channels into my car stereo. I’ve watch at least a dozen Hallmark Christmas movies already. There’s something about the season that takes me out of the depths of the darkness. The good cheer, the bright lights, the idea that winter isn’t just long months of misery — the holidays have a way of lightening the mood, of making me feel something other than despair.

Putting the Christmas tree in the living room in early November is an act of defiance. I’m taking a stance against my depression. I’m acting out against the bleak mood that usually prevails. I’m telling November and December and maybe part of January that it can’t — it won’t — take me down.

Our house used to belong to my grandparents. I grew up spending every Sunday and every holiday in this house. Christmas was a big deal; there was always a ton of…