Krönika: The comedic nature of being depressed in July
A hot summer’s day, the hottest of days of the year, yet the coldest summer’s day for the rest of our global-warmed lives; I sit on my childhood home’s beautifully designed silver-stained porch betwixt the treetops and cliffs, and I feel utterly miserable.
The sun hits, heats, and —supposedly— heals my skin —if you ask my mother, at least. I am wearing a pair of shorts and a scarf as a makeshift top, and to anyone perceiving me, I am living the dream. Even to my own, logical brain, I am soaking in one of the most idealistic moments of most people’s lives. But despite my soaking, all I seem to absorb is the impending doom and wretchedness seeping from the organic cracks in my skin, brain, bones, and soul.
”Why?”, you may ask, or maybe, if you’ve had the misfortune of measuring up to my misery, you’re saying “me too”. Well, I’ve ended up with the unwelcome yet well-known companion known as depression. Or if you’re an Ancient Greek time traveller, my bile is imbalanced, leaving me with a case of melancholia. Depression, as many know it, is a staple in the winter-in-Scandinavia starter pack, alongside roadside slush and January’s penny-counting; but when depression dwells —or worse, develops— in sea salt, sun, and skimpy bikinis; it’s close to comical to come to terms with. Like, you’re telling me I dredged through winter’s dragged and dripping darkness, sprinted across spring’s sleeted steps, all to arrive at summer’s doorstep with not a single spring left to bestow upon my step? What the hell was the point of that?
The pleasure of depression in July is that at the very least, a break is allowed. In fact, the lack of a limboesque state in the year’s favourite month is cause for great acclaim. How hardworking you must be! Depression’s need for relaxation goes hand-in-hand with July’s leisure, but when our dispirited friend’s nothingness meets the vivacious calendar’s everythingness, their alliance collapses. Ever tried spending your days in a stormy, shadowy room amidst a heatwave? Good luck! I mean, it’s impossible! Who would want to be depressed in July?! Well, unfortunately for me and my anti-depressant prescription, I am, and thus we will sit —not in that dark room— in a state of dread, in the most beautiful and lighthearted time of year.
Call it a hop, skip, and a jump; or a drag, dredge, and a stumble through the dwindling summer months into the fall of leaves and loaded leaflets. The air starts crisping, a smoky and nostalgic breeze blows through crackling petals and the outlines of crouching people, hiding in the corners of denial, wishing reality to be futile. Autumn always carries subtle senses of beginnings past, but with them, ambivalent endings. Summer’s heat dissipates and so does its purgatorial bliss.
In fact, depression in the heat of summer is an art form; and when it spills into the fall term, it’s a lifestyle. My summer days are spent in a woven sunbed on my veranda, picking the strings on my banjo as if their resonance will reach the innermost inches of my depressive and debilitating dread. But when these days are swapped out for heavy bags straining my already painful back, and neverending bus rides with music that never quite hits the spot, you’d hope that the spirited summer season has stuck like syrup. And yet; that monstrous melancholic malice meanders through each chasm of my soul.
Detta är en krönika. Ställningstaganden och analyser är skribentens egna. Kultur Ungdom är en ideell förening som är partipolitiskt och religiöst obunden. Verksamheten utgår från de unga medlemmarnas initiativ.
