For most Americans, including myself, this Winter was pretty freaking bleak. Between the short, cold days, the surging pandemic, and a lack of stable employment, I fell deep into a bout of debilitating depression. It’s to be expected, though, given my usual seasonal affective disorder.
But now it’s well into Spring, the birds are chirping, and I’m laying here in a bed full of dirty clothes waking up from a 13-hour nap. Fuck, I think this depression thing may not be seasonal anymore.
I thought it was the lack of sunlight that was making me sleep all day, but it turns out it’s just the futility of being.
The colorful tulips in my neighbor’s front yard have started to bloom, and that usually makes me smile from ear to ear. But all I can think about is their inevitable demise from a late season frost or lawnmower accident, and the torture of their brief, meaningless existence — just like my own.
Sure, the bright sunshine and 80-degree days feel nice when I do get outside, but only for a split second. Then I remember the sun exposure is probably going to give me skin cancer one day, and I get sad again.
The only thing that’s changed is that now I have the added guilt of not taking advantage of this nice weather, or the fact that venues and restaurants are open again. On the plus side, now that I still hate myself I can keep re-watching “Dexter” even though I’m done with the good seasons.
Every time I try to go hiking, my former favorite pastime, I’m preoccupied by never-ending thoughts that some tick is going to give me Lyme disease. If it can happen to Avril Lavigne and Justin Beiber, it will definitely happen to me.
I’m no psychologist, but I’m starting to think my brain isn’t bouncing back to normal this time around. If I hadn’t spent my stimulus check on McDonald’s and gin, I’d be looking into therapy right about now. At this point, I just hope Summer swamp ass doesn’t kill me.