So it turns out I'm depressed. Yeah, I know, I had the same reaction—it sounds like a lame Facebook status update—but apparently my doctor's convinced. I even have the little white pills to prove it. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The end of the holidays—along with the return to real life—hit me hard this year. I couldn't shake the lingering sense of dread that followed me around like the stench of a bad reheated lunch in a small office.

Then the sleep left me. It's true, we've never been the best of friends, but I'd lay awake for hours, burning through books like Terry Jones, to the chorus of my dog and daughter's snores. Of course, I'd stir awake a few hours later, slip the iPad off the nightstand and hopelessly reach for a few more minutes of sleep. The sunrise nearly always came first.