Boy, it’s been hot. Disgusting, groggy, sweaty heat, clouding the atmosphere with grim damp wetness and gloriously smelly human begins. On most days at work, I am clacking away at my keyboard, trying to muster up enough creativity to promote a film. As I am doing so, a droplet of heated, smelly body water skims down my back, landing in the crevice of my buttocks. A snail trail of my own perspiration making tracks down my skin. My face is a patchy artwork of skin puddle formations and sticky hair that, goddammit, I just styled and brushed Linda.
That sluggish mentality of tiredom and exhaustion is mixing with my psyche and causing this hefty cloud around me. For some reason the sun is my natural enemy and I can only allow myself one prance around in it before my body and my mind goes: “Nah mate, fuck this,” and I end up spending days unable to get out of bed. If you are a workaholic like me, have exactly zero energy or even motivation digs you more into that sorrow-filled hole that, honestly, is kinda nice because there’s shade.
No. Not that type of shade.
Yes, that one.
“But Sarah, that’s weird, Summer is such a happy period!”
Yeah, I know, but that makes it all fucking worse.
It’s true that if you were going to relate Depression to any cartoon portrayal of the mental illness then Autumn is the go to rain-addled season you’d use. But I love tat season so much that it fills me with glee. It’s a Florence and the Machine album. Winds grabbing tufts of hair and delicately weaving them in the grey. Victorian attire and graveyard settings. The kiss of rain upon your pale skin as the nights draw into darkness earlier. Spiritual walks in forests and a Gothic romp through your heart. Vampires, witches, and ghouls stalking your soul. An auburn aurora wrapped around the days and a smokey smell capturing. I basically fucking love the cooler months, it feels easier, more joyful, and it’s expected to wrap yourself up warm, take care, and scurry home. Plus there’s HALLOWEEN?!?!?! AND CHRISTMAS???!?!?!?!?!
What’s not to love?
Summer is an over-bloated dickhead that takes swipes at my skin, plays with my emotions, and then demands that I be all happy over it. It’s someone who pokes you with a fiery ember then makes you be THANKFUL, IT’S HERE! Sapping your resources, depleting all that spark from me, making walk like Lurch from The Addam’s Family. Smile bitch, it’s sunny, that tyrannical gaseous sod billions of miles away is telling me whilst chuckling at its heinous ways that include dehydration, the melting of the ice-caps, and skin cancer. But yes, smile bitch.
“But Sarah, the sun is good for you!”
Yeah, it is. And I am not adverse to it completely. Gimme a nice sun, a gentle breeze, and a day walking through the stunning structures of London, filming or taking photos, then I’d be like…
This British summer we have so sadly concocted of humidity and bodies just sticking to one another like you have no idea where your sweat ends and the other persons begins. And honey, there should only be one acceptable place where that happens…wink wink, nudge nudge.
Being Depressed in summer is being told repeatedly that you are ruining the party. Everyone is having the best time and you’re in the corner flicking through Tumblr and re-blogging black and white gifs, wishing they’d take off to play hard core screamo. What’s worse is that you know this party is happening and full of love, but love to you is My Chemical Romance on an October Evening. It’s frustrating that you cannot lustfully gyrate with your friends who prefer Katy Perry’s saccharine pop tunes.
Trust me honey, there are a lot of factors to why I don’t appreciate Summer as much as the sundress and short wearing folk out there (although, I appreciate sundresses and shorts wearing folk out there, if you know what I mean.) Physically, sun is the destroyer of your energies for the most part, for everyone. Low pressure, exhaustion, heat – this is why the Spanish have siestas. So added to this, I have excess weight. I’m aware enough to know that being obese is an ingredient here. I’m fat which means I exhaust quicker and deplete whatever mental defence I use 99.5% of my energy for. You know, that kinda cheer-leading character in your brain that has to somersault and do death drops in order to distract that monstrous evil beast in your mind going “ROAR, you suck!”
Hang on a minute – Cheerleaders vs Demons. Is that a film that’s been done before? Should write that down.
No, wait a minute.
Buffy, I’m thinking about Buffy.
Anyway, there are other more intrinsic parts of my psyche that crop up when this cheerleader burns up in the sun like a leather wearing vampire. Partially because I have bad memories associated with Summer and the atmosphere can mirror so heinously those moments that I’d rather sleep away from it all until the storm comes. And, honestly, there is an element within me that is anguished that I cannot truly connect with Summer as much as my friends and family do. Or even my past self. It’s frustrating that I can only have two days catching that special type of red sheen (a tan? maybe.) Soon, I just feel like shirking under my blanket and watching movies until the first leaf falls.
The biggest punchline here is that I have been excited, for once, to spend Summer in London. I am back in the city that I love baby, and there is so much to do, see, and enjoy. Vast copious amounts of glee to be swilled down my neck and dancing to be had. But I have these encroaching feelings springing up (summer-ing up) again where there is a weighted weather burden on my soul.
I know within me, there’s this want to be where the people are. I want to see, want to see them dancing…
So reader of mine, remember if you cannot quite gel with Summer and want to push two fingers in the air and go “Fuck off you yellow flamed cunt.” Then I am with you. We don’t all have to be lovers of this season. You enjoy what you can, rest when you should, and never feel guilty at all for pulling the blinds when the whole country turns into the cast of La La Land…
Moonlight is better anyway…