Seasonally Depressed At The Park

A casual walk with Honey, myself, and my depression

During winter, I have a habit of romanticizing my depression.

Let’s set the scene, shall we?

Lana Del Ray and Hazlett are on repeat while I drive down the highway with my left elbow propped against the window, fingers rubbing my temple. Casually, like drinking a cup of black coffee, I look up at the overcast sky swirling above and sink deep into melancholy. Slow and syrupy, half of my brain searches for the words to describe how lost I feel while my thoughts scream into the void about how craving authentic connection yet fearing vulnerability is one of the most painful things to experience.

I want to hold someone’s hand and take them with me as I cry about the darkness that fills the pit of my stomach each time I look into the mirror. But instead, I keep driving and mumbling lyrics to a song I’ve played more than a thousand times.

There’s a fine line between this romanticization and the very real danger of having my depressive thoughts take over my entire being. This happens, and suddenly I’m sleeping more than twelve hours of the day and buying stupidly expensive gifts I can’t afford for family members so they have something nice to remember me by. So far this winter, I haven’t reached that low of a point in my depression. For now, we are romanticizing the sad, but harmless actions of someone who utilizes artificial serotonin to function.

Another part of this romanticization process is going on sad walks with my overly anxious and clingy dog, Honey. We go to the same secluded park near our apartment because it’s one of the only places to take a reactive dog where you are almost always guaranteed to have minimal outbursts as most triggers can be easily avoided. Nestled next to the Meramec River, the park we go to is a set of large soccer fields where most people just walk on the paved road that wraps around them. Recently, the river flooded so the entire park is currently covered in a thin film of dirt and sediment, making it slippery in some spots.

Despite its lack of charm, this park is our refuge in between backpacking and hiking trips. It’s the perfect place for an escape where I can let myself feel the depression I normally mask and where Honey can be herself without fear of running into other dogs. On one of our sad walks on a particularly cloudy day, I put my headphones in and listened to my sappy songs on repeat while we meandered around the fields. With my hand holding onto a loose leash, I let Honey sniff the grass as we walk by while I think about the past month.

Just two weeks ago, I was wearing black regalia and striding across a stage to get a diploma for my Bachelor of Arts in Psychology degree. Things felt incredibly odd. For once, I wasn’t constantly thinking about papers and assignments to complete. My brain was entirely empty and as someone who is used to keeping super busy, I didn’t like this ambivalence. I had no concrete plans lined up for what I would do post-graduation in terms of a job or graduate school. After pet sitting virtually the entire semester, I was exhausted from juggling that responsibility alongside a full-time course load and unfortunately ended up having very little financial gain to validate the work I had put in to make my clients happy.

I knew that I needed rest; an unapologetic rest period where I could actually do the things that made my heart happy. Backpacking with Honey, hiking with my sister, working on completing all section of the Ozark Trail, and growing this newsletter is what I really wanted to do. In between, I wanted to slow down and try to find small bits of joy throughout the day. Crocheting a few rows of a blanket I’ve been working on, baking cookies from a cookbook that has sat untouched for years while I was consumed with school, having coffee dates with friends I don’t see often enough, and finally reading the novels on my bookshelf all seem like a good place to start.

But I knew deep down there were still inklings of depression that liked to seep through the cracks that my antidepressants attempted to calked each day. No matter what I do, I still look up at the grey sky and crave listening to my sad songs while going on my sad little walks with my trauma-riddled, unhinged dog.

“It’s winter,” I tell myself. “It’s the weather that’s making you feel this way.”

What a very Appalachian thing to say.

I continue walking around the soccer fields with Honey in tow and feel a painfully deep swirl of darkness find itself a spot to lay down at the bottom of my stomach. At this point, it just feels normal, so I welcome it and allow it to sleep softy underneath my skin. I listen to Lana Del Ray and Hazlett, day dreaming about how the stark naked tree branches look like fingers interlocking with each other. Gripping the leash, I pretend the looped handle is someone I love and as we walk together, I tell them about how I feel. And I cry and cry until things finally feel okay again.

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See you out on the trail!