Watching Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (as one does on Thanksgiving night). The inferi have grabbed him; they've pulled him into the water; he's drowning.
Stuffed with Thanksgiving food and family, Keith and Hugh recline on their respective sofas (we are a two-sofa family), caught up in Harry's travails, yet utterly relaxed. But I, feeling somewhat alienated as usual by the whole ordeal of "Thanksgiving at the In-Laws' [who are supposed to be my family but let's face it, they're not], I find myself utterly transfixed by this scene, which so perfectly, horribly, accurately embodies the experience of chronic depression, the lifelong fight against those creatures who pull you in and suck you under.
Harry's now been saved by Dumbledore and his wand. I could use a Dumbledore right now. Or even just a Hermione and a Ron, to walk with me past the Whomping Willow and through the Forbidden Forest, til we find ourselves safe at Hagrid's cottage, in front of a roaring fire.
You should just make it a holiday tradition to spend every Thanksgiving at the Sound of Music sing-a-long a the Music Box. With your 'real family.'
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