And I Was Doing So Well

Do you think Seasonal Affective Disorder can work in reverse? Because I’m starting to think that maybe it can.

Case in points:
1. The days are getting longer, which means there’s more time for me to examine all my decisions by the light of day and worry myself into a tizzy or a panic attack. This is happening with increasing frequency, and I blame the sun. Or, like, the state of the world. But let’s pretend it’s just the sun.

2. Warm weather makes me stupid. I mean, sure, cold weather can be a drag when it’s all damp and foggy outside, but I get some good thinking done when it’s cold outside.  But warm weather makes me sleepy all the time… like a cat. Like I just want to find a warm spot in the sun and curl up for 16 hours and dream about dismembering mice, or something. You know, I don’t think I want to know what cats dream about.

3. Since seasonal depression is definitely a thing, it makes sense that mine would kick in near the time of my dad’s death. His birthday is on the 29th of this month, and that has sent me into a mini-tailspin.

Not like last year when I stopped bathing and working out and eating and generally being a human, but it’s made me put up a giant wall around myself that I seem to like to bang my head against repeatedly. I’m indulging in emotional masochism, and that’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve done since that time I was worried I had knee herpes so I googled “Knee Herpes.”

Last year was the first year since my parents separated that I didn’t wish my dad a happy birthday or Father’s Day. I am going to regret those decisions for the rest of my life. Not because I’m so self-important enough that I think a “happy b-day, dad. Hope it’s a good one” text would’ve kept him from killing himself, but because I still cared. I still wanted him to have a happy birthday and a good Father’s Day, even if he had no interest in letting me be a part of them.

It’s pretty messed up, and for me, that’s saying something. I should be proud of myself because I stuck to my boundaries for the first time ever; but on the other hand, doing so resulted in losing the last two opportunities to reach out to him. I didn’t dwell on this for longer than a couple weeks after his death, but now it’s basically the only thought in my head. I should’ve but I didn’t I should’ve but I didn’t I should’ve but I didn’t I should’ve but I didn’t.

It’s like if the dwarf Grumpy somehow managed to have sex with the Little Engine That Could and they produced the Caboose of Angst and Regret.

Now that would make for an interesting children’s book.