When I was younger, I used to love the turn of weather from the slight chill of autumn to the cold numbness of winter. Nowadays, I seem to be dreading it. There comes a point where I get this feeling that seizes me in a tight grip, that another year is ending, that somehow I’ve made it through another long period of wasting my time.
I don’t know where these feelings come from. I’ve been told it’s seasonal affective disorder, as if I needed another one on top of the ones I already have. Whether it’s an official thing or not, the experience isn’t fun to go through.
Part of me doesn’t care if it is something named or measured or officially recognized. As I live my life, I’ve come to view this time of year as a defeat instead of a success. It isn’t relevant that others might experience something like it. The only thing that matters is that I don’t look forward to the promise of a new year.
Recently, I’ve come to regard my brain as just another of my organs. For the most part, I’ve lucked out that I have lungs that have survived smoking, a liver that survived excessive drinking in my youth, and other organs that still function despite my lack of motivation to pursue good health. But the most important organ I have, my mind, is really defective. Like a tyrant unwilling to accept reality, it imposes its own whims on the rest of my body. Only, I’m stuck with this petty despot, and it doesn’t want to go anywhere.
Why my mind has gone from liking winter to hating it is beyond me. Somewhere, somehow, it happened. Now, I have to deal with the injustices of a brain that has found one more thing to torture me with.