For most of my 20s, I did not believe that I had clinical depression. No, what I had was clinical depression’s cuter, more manageable cousin: seasonal affective disorder. I bought one of those lamps that is too bright for the afternoon darkness but alleges to make your brain think you are standing in warm, direct sunlight. I took vitamin D pills. I whined about how it was too dark and too cold and blamed my brain’s rebellion against me on both.
It was easier to confine the bad feelings to a season. I had just moved from Texas to Washington, D.C., a place with real (if mild) winter. Everyone else was struggling, too! It’s much more manageable to accept that you have a seasonal setback than it is to worry about a looming lifelong struggle.
I vividly remember the day my therapist challenged my assertion that my “seasonal affective disorder” was flaring again. What month was it again? July. Could that be SAD? No, it could not. Even though I now accept that I have major clinical depression, and probably always did, it still doesn’t feel okay to have a depressive episode in the summer. It goes against all the season is meant to be.
Being depressed in the winter feels right. It’s dark. Everyone is grumpy. You can hide your sweatpants under your coat. It’s perfect. In the summer, it feels so unbelievably stupid to sit outside with a beer and feel bad. How are you supposed to sweat in a tank top under the heat of the summer sun while eating a hot dog, and feel so miserable you want to die? It’s just not right.
While I respect Lana Del Rey for writing a song to describe this predicament—I love representation!—I prefer not to wallow in a summer depression. I want to live in a beautiful, sweaty delusion where I am not depressed and in fact want to dance under neon lights. Maybe you do, too. This playlist is for us:
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