February is like a small gnarly house guest that won’t leave. In theory it is short, but it insists on hanging around. It must be spring soon?
I’m not a fan of the butt end of winter, the bit after the bright lights of Christmas and New Year.
The bit that lingers in a cold dark snivel of grey sky depression. The bit now.
My GP is of the opinion I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), and suggested I go abroad for some winter sun.
Given the current strain on the NHS, I assume they don’t run to EasyJet vouchers on prescription. With grinding irony, SAD robs you of the drive you need to address your mental health.
I could go on holiday, but I’ve used all the energy I have dragging myself from bed and getting dressed.
All social activity has ceased. It’s just me and Netflix. I can’t even be bothered to talk to myself. And they say that’s the first sign of madness? They haven’t seen me lately.
I should eat healthily, but my enthusiasm for anything but chocolate ginger biscuits is non-existent. Even they taste of ash.
And if someone else tells me I would feel better if I exercised I will laugh. If I can be bothered. Which I probably can’t. I am malaise personified.
I wish I was a snow bunny. Or someone who isn’t affected by the seemingly innocuous lack of daylight or vitamin D.
I see those people, just getting on with it and I want to cry. If you are like me, please hang on. I know there’s light at the end of the tunnel in the coming sun.
And you and me and everyone suffering is going to explode back into ourselves and our lives. Soon.
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