My (Reverse?) Seasonal Depression
I haven’t been sleeping lately.
And I don’t mean that as like, I get six hours and want to be “relatable”. Last night I got four hours and that’s considered a major win.
It’s not for lack of trying. I’ve upped my exercise, swapped out phone games for knitting. I meditate, do yoga, and I’ve tried getting outside more often.
I honestly think the problem is summer.
I pretend to love summer. Don’t get me wrong, there’s parts I like. I mean, my birthday, now my anniversary. I like gardening, and I can’t downplay how much I loved not going to school as a kid. School was generally a personal hell where people were voraciously mean to me and I was thankful to have nothing to do with it for a few months.
On the flip side, I hate the bugs, the sweat, the judgement. The pressure to be all happy and bubbly. I love a sundress but I count down the days until I can throw a cardigan over it.
I think I’ll always have to hide my summer disdain because people just don’t react well to it. The truth is, always has been, and always will be that summer just isn’t cosy.
Fall and winter are filled with wool socks and cardigans, aka the clothing equivalent of a hug. Fall and winter are about the magic of holidays and knitting in front of a fire all curled up in a blanket. Leaves change colour and make a satisfying crunchy layer to walk on. Snow carpets the world in still beauty.
I’m always going to have to hide it. People really don’t like when you hate summer and it’s easier to just not have the conversation. All I can do is dream of tights, cardigans, and snowflakes on my eyelashes.