It’s that time of year

It’s that time of year.

It is dark when I wake up. Dark when I get home.

Cold. Dry. Windy.

It sounds silly to say, but I realized today…I am actually afraid of this time of year and what it will bring. 

You see, this it the time of year where stuff starts. 

It doesn’t usually peak…but it leads into what are typically the hardest months out of the year for me.

I hate the cold. I am meant to lay on a beach, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the world as it should be.

The beach is my happy place–my safe–place.

Yet, I am extraordinarily landlocked, stuck on the great plains, approaching what will inevitably be another cold, dark winter.

How do I avoid the seasonal depression?

It is so hard.

Christmas will temporarily perk me up, but that is quickly followed by my least favorite months out of the year–January and February. Those are the months where I hold my breath and close my eyes, waiting and wishing for the end of March when the world starts to come alive again and I discover the very first, resilient crocus of the spring.

My self care starts to go down this time of year. I am so tired and it is hard to work out in the dark. Weight usually starts to creep on and I start to beat myself up.

I start to question, and worry, and consider making huge decisions that I know I will never really make, but think I will in the moment because I am going stir crazy.

It is a time of year that feels haunted.


And, to be truthful…I am kind of scared to make it through another one.

It’s not that I think I won’t. I know I will. I am, overall, “okay” right now.

It is just that I know the heavy feelings that so frequently haunt ME during the upcoming months. Sadness. Loneliness. Despair. Worry. Anxiety. Unworthiness.

I don’t want them anymore.

Logically, I know that these feelings don’t HAVE to come along with the months that I hate. But…what if they come anyway?

I will deal with them. But I am tired of dealing with them.

I am tired of feeling haunted by the past. By the things that happened. By who I was and who I am. I am tired of identifying as that trauma-surviving girl who turned out alright…but who secretly aches at night.

I want to move on. (Preferably on a beach.)

4 thoughts on “It’s that time of year

  1. Scarpoe November 17, 2018 / 5:54 am

    You are not alone. You will find your beach. It takes time, use the time to grow. Don’t waste it.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. throwntogetherness November 18, 2018 / 10:15 am

    from Quaker teacher and author Parker Palmer’s new book, On the Brink of Everything: Grace, Gravity and Getting Old.
    I’m a professional melancholic, and for years my delight in the autumn color show quickly morphed into sadness as I watched the beauty die. Focused on the browning of summer’s green growth, I allowed the prospect of death to eclipse all that’s life-giving about the fall and its sensuous delights.
    Then I began to understand a simple fact: all the “falling” that’s going on out there is full of promise. Seeds are being planted and leaves are being composted as earth prepares for yet another uprising of green.
    Today, as I weather the late autumn of my own life, I find nature a trustworthy guide. It’s easy to fixate on everything that goes to the ground as time goes by: the disintegration of a relationship, the disappearance of good work well done, the diminishment of a sense of purpose and meaning. But as I’ve come to understand that life “composts” and “seeds” us as autumn does the earth, I’ve seen how possibility gets planted in us even in the hardest of times.
    Looking back, I see how the job I lost pushed me to find work that was mine to do, how the “Road Closed” sign turned me toward terrain that I’m glad I traveled, how losses that felt irredeemable forced me to find new sources of meaning. In each of these experiences, it felt as though something was dying, and so it was. Yet deep down, amid all the falling, the seeds of new life were always being silently and lavishly sown. . . .
    Perhaps death possesses a grace that we who fear dying, who find it ugly and even obscene, cannot see. How shall we understand nature’s testimony that dying itself—as devastating as we know it can be—contains the hope of a certain beauty?
    The closest I’ve ever come to answering that question begins with these words from Thomas Merton, . . . “There is in all visible things . . . a hidden wholeness.” [1]
    In the visible world of nature, a great truth is concealed in plain sight. Diminishment and beauty, darkness and light, death and life are not opposites: they are held together in the paradox of the “hidden wholeness.” In a paradox, opposites do not negate each other—they cohabit and cocreate in mysterious unity at the heart of reality. Deeper still, they need each other for health, just as our well-being depends on breathing in and breathing out. . . .
    When I give myself over to organic reality—to the endless interplay of darkness and light, falling and rising—the life I am given is as real and colorful, fruitful and whole as this graced and graceful world and the seasonal cycles that make it so. Though I still grieve as beauty goes to ground, autumn reminds me to celebrate the primal power that is forever making all things new in me, in us, and in the natural world.
    Got this today in my inbox from Richard Rohrs daily thoughts. Thought of you and winter. I’m in the southern hemisphere so the posts are always out of season!


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