“Seasonal depression hits for me, like clockwork, the day after Halloween… Thanksgiving is my first warning; Christmas is my second; and New Year’s Eve is not a beginning but an end.” — Dayna Evans
If you’d ask anyone, they’d tell me I’m disgustingly intense about the holidays. My heart deals with the Spring and the Summer, because they are necessary evils to get to Fall. Pumpkins. Overpriced coffee. Going back for a second helping of pernil. Costume contests. Christmas candy. The feeling you may get (if you’re anything like me) when you wish anyone ‘Happy Holidays’. The holidays make love and kindness mandatory. They force you to welcome maximalist styles and decor, age old traditions (or maybe some new ones), and painful yet unmistakingly welcomed political conversations with your family members (I pride myself to be a bit of an educator – we woke ’round here).
Fall and winter are simply my thing. My mother made these seasons come to life, with Christmas decor from the 70s and mandatory knick knack swapping. We traded the angel children for the Christmas village, and there wasn’t an inch in the house that didn’t have some kind of lights. Christmas is her, and I’ll be dammed if I let it fall to the wayward.
Except, this year, I did. I had to. Bah fucking humbug.
It wasn’t a choice – that much is clear. It started with frequent ER visits in the early Spring, with more questions than answers. Add in a lack of consistent medication management (caused by yours truly), and by the time Halloween got here, I was spent. A shell of myself – still funny, still cute, but not at all as aggressive about decorating as I usually am. There is no denying it – I didn’t celebrate shit this year, and you’ll be lucky to catch me in front of the TV when the ball drops on the 31st.
Chronic illness and declining mental health don’t scream ‘deck the halls’, now does it?
By the end of November, I was drafting goodbye letters to my loved one with apologies for nothing specific and rants about a skewed reality. Moreso for therapy and release than anything else, but still, seasonal affective disorder is not quite done with me. SAD lingers, like a bad night terror in your bones – sleep is needed, not enough is gained, and you’ve reached a Mariana Trench level of low. Please – draw the blinds, call my therapist, and play all the albums of Pierce the Veil on repeat.
But let’s make one thing clear – this, believe it or not, is a celebration blog post. Two-ish years ago, I spent these days cleaning my house in preparation for a self-opted grippy sock vacation. Today, I sit on my partners’ bed, watching them completely smoke me in Outriders and drinking water like my life depends on it.
We could get into medical details now – but I don’t think that’s what’s important. Nah. What’s important is my newfound version of resiliency – I like to call it respecting the rot.
They warn you to ignore the rot at all costs. Keep yourself busy, keep yourself productive, and stay away from the venom that is staying still for too long. But the truth is, is I’m exhausted. I’ve never rested, in any shape, way, or form. At one point, I was juggling five part time jobs, a state assembly campaign, thesis writing, and an overwhelming sense of imposter syndrome. People used to ask when I slept and I’d respond “I don’t know!” thinking it was my badge of honor for ignoring the rot.
But I turned 26 this year, and fuck that. The rot is not your enemy, not always. The rot is just your body screaming at you to stop, to slow down, enjoy the feeling of your lungs moving and give yourself your flowers. I have to respect her more – my body, my younger self, my medical conditions, the rot – whatever you’d like to call it.
Why is it that you’d want me to ignore all that screaming, anyways? Chemical imbalances try to convince me that my loved ones will rejoice if they receive my goodbye letters – I think laying on the couch for a day, focusing on my breathing, and enjoying the books I’ve bought and neglected all year is a better plan – don’t you?
Being still in not a privilege, it’s a necessity. I wish I would’ve known before, I wish I would’ve listened to the signs and my loved ones concerned gazes. I’ve been an absolute powerhouse this entire time – and god, it’s absolutely lovely not to be, even if it is just temporary. Stillness doesn’t make you less then. Rest doesn’t make you lazy. And I’m begging you, please take help when it’s offered to you.
If you read my ‘About Amillia’ page, you know my main goal here is to leave you with something, dear reader. I write this in honor of the Black and queer women before me, of my mother who gave everything to everyone but herself, to the organizers too busy fighting for the right to live to think about their water intake – you NEED to rest, and you NEED to do it now. The world will not end if you take a tap, if you decline the invitation, if you hit snooze – cause baby, if it did, that’s THEIR problem for putting all of that weight on your shoulders, not you.
You deserve whatever it is that you need, always. Your existence shouldn’t feel burdensome, and rest shouldn’t feel like a crime. You could do amazing things, but only if you’re still here to do them.
Read this, twice maybe. Take a nap, twice for sure. Drink your water, wash ya face, and be proud of all the small wins – RESTING BEING ONE OF THEM.
Until next time, my weeping willows!
~ Amillia
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