Anyone fancy a tiny slice of death?
Anyone fancy a tiny slice of death?
Letting go of old friends and bad habits is a lot easier said than done, but someone's got to do it
“I learned to know the love of bare November days.”
-Robert Frost
Dearest readers, let me unfold to you a secret I’ve kept rather close to my heart, a personal tapestry that’s decorated the walls of my inner demon’s man cave. Let us pull apart this secret together, thread by delicate thread:
I confess, I'm secretly in cahoots with Winter. Despite its vilification and harbinger of all gloom, I’ve always found myself a fan of its gospel.
Don’t worry, this adoration isn't just some sadistic, clandestine love for the torture of Winter’s bone-chilling frostbite. There are layers to it. Let’s pull them back, shall we?
My love for it is tied into some recent personal reflections —the Winter opens a very particular mirror into my past, allowing in echoes of sentiments from a younger me, from a child who found solace in shorter days and longer nights.
I always found a strange comfort in the bleakness that these bitter months produced. It felt strangely reflective of my inner turmoil, a turmoil that went unquestioned and undisturbed, at least during Winter’s cruel embrace. No one questions why you’re depressed in the winter — everyone sort of gets it. If I were to be depressed in the summer, withering away in my room, my friends would call me a bore and force me into the sunlight (and for that, I love them dearly).
Yet, in an ironic twist of self-deception, I've recently realized I've become a master of illusion; my ability to craft intricate self-affirming lies to myself is almost instinctual. Unfortunately for me, truth always demands to be felt, to be acknowledged, to be unheaved.
So here, dearest reader, I invite you to have a slice of my personal, unadulterated truth: Winter is, and always has been, my sweet escape, a sanctuary to rest my sadness, a months-long pity party for one.
I quickly learned as a child that Winter was the only socially acceptable season to be overwhelmingly sad and depressed in. It basically begged for it with all its melancholic extremities. It was a refuge for my sadness, a place where my desolation didn't feel out of place but rather was a part of the collective experience of despair and sorrow.
I spent the Wintertime as a physical embodiment of the #sadgirlaesthetic and I didn’t even have to hide it. It was blissful!
If I have to reflect back, which my therapist says I must if I expect any real sort of change to occur, I spent a large portion of my childhood in a prison of my creation, trapped behind bars I had no intention of ever escaping, comfortable with drowning in my sadness. Granted, I was ill-equipped to handle the intensity of my emotions but I was also a stubborn child who thought herself beyond help.
I was a silent soldier trudging through a war I didn’t understand, a war I felt made me weak, broken, or just plain damaged. But, like any smarty-pants, I knew to win a war you needed allies, and so I found companionship in Winter’s frosty clutch. I didn’t just view it as a season; no, to me, it was a kindred spirit, an ally among enemies, a friend among foes.
But let’s take a moment to shift the lens here. I’m no longer a child, I’m equipped with coping mechanisms and a staggering amount of self-awareness that would send 12-year-old me into shock. My therapist keeps saying I can’t expect different results from the same actions — that clinging to old defences will get me nowhere new. Ugh.
So, this year, I’m switching it up - even if just for the sake of research.
Don’t worry, I allowed myself a brief moment of woefulness to adjust to daylight savings, but now I’ve returned with a vengeance, with the intention to treat this Winter as a funeral of sorts.
We refer to spring as the season of rebirth, which suggests the death of something, does it not?
Consider this Winter a personal renaissance, not in some eat-pray-love bullshit type of way, but as a genuine shedding of familiar skin that I've come to outgrow — a delicate, tiny death of self.
Winter has a funny way of reminding me that I’ve become so addicted to my own sadness, and there’s really only so long a girl can talk about being sad before it’s a label and not a quirk.
I figure it’s time to let go of it all, because if we’re being honest it’s become increasingly dull. I’m writing this as a first step in stopping the romanticization of my self-affirming sadness and considering a new way of being.
A new self. One that doesn’t nuzzle up in Winter’s promise of solitude but challenges it.
Do not mistake this as a declaration as some sort of enlightenment era that’ll be filled with green juices and meditation. You know me better than that, don’t you?
Consider this a vow to face this season’s blues with a newfound mindset. A mindset that doesn’t shy away from sadness but also doesn’t allow myself to drown in it.
I figure it’s about time to just bully myself into making some good habits and seeking out long-term happiness.
How’s that for some healing girl shit?
Can someone forward this to my therapist please?
“We’re so happy that you’re on some weird, self-reflective healing journey, but like the Winter still sucks. Sierra, how do we combat the Winter blues, like for real?”
Good question! To that, I say:
Funny memes aside, I wasn’t joking when I said that sometimes you have to literally just bully yourself into making better choices.
Winter has the tendency to send us spiralling down a self-hatred, depression-inducing, anxiety-provoking hole, and climbing out isn’t always easy. But, you can’t wait around expecting to just feel better, we all know the easier option is to stay in bed and wallow — it’s a lot harder to get up and do something about how you’re feeling.
That’s right, baby, brute force.
I’m not saying you have to force yourself to be a positive, happy-go-lucky-ray-of-sunshine. Healing makes you feel worse before you get to feel better. It’s work. Real, raw, ugly work. But it needs to get done, and unfortunately, you can’t outsource it (trust me, I’ve tried).
Accept the things you cannot change, accept that it’s going to suck and then do it anyways, even if that thing is just getting out of bed in the morning and having a cup of coffee.
Winter is tough, the world is cold and brutal and hard to navigate, but it’s worth it. It’s worth fighting for. Your first job is just to figure out what you’re fighting towards.
“Even if we fail, what better way is there to live?"
Stop waiting around for things to happen, stop waiting for everything to perfectly align for you to be happy.
Don’t make the same mistake of growing your identity around your self-pity and despair like I did, spend this Winter letting go and moving on.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this month’s edition of Confessions of a 20-Something. I encourage you to share this with your close friends if you feel like it’s the kind of thing they’d be into.
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Until next month …