The Champagne Soapbox

it’s the damn season where solitude becomes the denominating activity, underlining nights of forced entertainment and poorly chosen outfits under 5 year old puffer jackets. i would rather just stay inside and watch the glow of the sun transfer into the warm lighting of my bedside lamp, where comfort is contained under my bedsheets and behind the blinding light of some Netflix series i begin over and over again for some grasp on familiarity. sunsets turning cold and younger while we’re getting old and older. much like the air, our attitudes turn crisp only remedied by burning smell of the heater and the jingle of your keys being thrown on the counter.

i grew up in warmth, waking up to wet pavement when my expectations were of snow. i’ve never been skiing, and even in attempts i much preferred the calm ambiance of pot luck dinners and stale wine. there’s something exciting about the cold, expensive even in texas, in the way that ice baths are effective resources. meant to be enjoyed in tolerance. though on the other hand, i’ve always been the one to go swimming when the pools not heated and spend a few more hours with chapped lips to speak frankly to strangers. both summer and winter help me revive some childlike innocence. though now as i get older, i start to wonder what stole that innocence from me in the first place.

after all the holidays and rewards of the season pass, we are confronted with a sharp reality to maintain resolutions, mainly those ambiguous toward hormonal imbalances. the whimsy of the winter has passed and suddenly we’re back on the path popularly traveled and illuminated with fluorescent cubicles and silent nights. it’s the depressive after the manic, and maybe even sometimes identical of the numbness of both. i feel quiet during these times, so much that i’m forced to reflect on why i feel different during the winter than i do with any other season. there are no leaves to watch fall, waves to watch pull back, or flowers to watch bloom. hell, you can’t even enjoy watching snow in texas, because when you do, hours later you’re evacuating your flooding apartment and carrying your inherited items to a curiously “safer” place.

your friends are back from holidays, and all that time you spent lingering for their return remains still. my active impulsivity thrives in times where I’m forced to be still, looking to create chaos from contentment. it’s like i’m itching to create entertainment, for others, so maybe they too feel less barren in a dry spell. and so when they smile, i see the reflection of warmth i offered, and that is enough to keep me satisfied until the fire of social acceptance burns out shortly after. winter is nothing more or less than perfect humility pulling us back to our developmental essence. it’s the same girl who watched snow fall for the first time the day of her winter recital, stuck in a costume and smashing rosin on her pointe shoes at a ripe 10 years old. it’s the same girl who once lived to preform for others and is only recently feeling satisfied with performing for herself. no more costumes, no more grades, no more firsts, and no more limiting expressions of ego. just living, and sometimes merely surviving through the day.

seasonal depression doesn’t necessarily consider time or weather. i always get sick around this time, somehow more and more intense than the prior. my throat feels tighter and body feels weaker. sometimes i wish to blame my disposition and inheritance of abnormal allergies. i only blame my perspective on the environment. there’s no sunshine in between the rain, only after or in little sections between clouds. during seasons like this, the sun comes out earlier and goes down later. until it resets, it’s simple nature of being sick of being sick, tired, and cold until you waste enough time inside to realize that the sun always been there but it’s your fault that you took it for granted. and when you don’t take it for granted, you still return back to a cold bed.

that guilt forces you to plan to be more productive tomorrow. you stay up so late making these plans that you almost feel uncomfortable in your own bed. you wake up ten times more exhausted the next morning, despite your alarm clock still ringing from an hour prior. you’re head is killing you, and you don’t know if it’s from that Pinot you finished last night alone, the cedar that your older coworkers say is getting worse, or the little to too much sleep you had. google says it could be a number of things, but you wait an hour more to settle for your allergy pills, nasal rinse, nasal spray, ibuprofen, and cocktail of medicinal supplements. you stay in bed for a little bit longer hoping to pass some time before real life starts again, until it does start again. every single day.

i guess a nice way to go about it would be to focus on the warmth others bring to your life. comparing body heat between loose hugs is much better than the strong wrap you’ve made tossing in the covers on your own accord. anyway, in the attempts to hug yourself, it is much easier to do so without all the layers and with a pair of arms that aren’t yours. the whole “self care” motif has been abused by the media so much that we only feel comfort when we see other people preforming acts of self care on tik tok or whatever. instagram. i don’t know, wherever you get your hours on end fix. although self care culture and its exploitation is a separate argument, seasonal depression simply forces us to look for the warmth we’ve been seeking within our own selves. not through little face masks or bubble baths or wine nights and what not, but through spending valuable time with yourself and the people who help you light that fire.

Did you know that it’s not rest if you’re thinking about work the whole time? Or that it’s not socializing when you forget half the things you shared the next day? Is it not comfort when you only feel safe in one place? Am I calling you out right now? Am i calling myself out? Do we, the digital age, really understand what it’s like to be alone and how to feel okay with being alone? Without posting about it online much like I am now? Why do Sundays feel much like Fridays? Why is my bed so much more comfortable when I am forced to be productive? Can we blame it on the weather?

i think i will for now, until i feel like getting out of bed today.

i think the winter forces us to re-evaluate the colder parts of ourselves so we can feel warm again. that’s the simply stated version. really, it’s a time where we finally feel security (or, interestingly insecure) in the balance between silence and chaos, socialization and solitude, and hibernation and activity. however, i’ve only been taught in school that a balanced equation has zero output. without an uneven representation of either and or, my temporary and passing time means nothing. though i don’t particularly believe that, i believe it explains my arresting desire to tip the balance between remaining a mystery and becoming front page news for the evening. when the world stands still but the wind shakes the bare branches cold, my mind runs fast and my body is stunned frozen.

it’s a time to realize that even though you want to spend just a little longer in bed, life will go on without you. the sun will set without you. the snow will fall without you. the friends will move without you. but, the cat will die without you. get up dammit! in all seriousness though, if you are struggling with your mental health, please reach out to a health professional. i mainly wrote this as a result of a temporary period of intrinsic angst and as a funky way to reach an appreciation of the cold, but take care of yourself. and not in the marketable and commercial way of taking care of yourself either.

seasons pass, emotions fleet, and you will be okay.

“I was at a friend’s house, and all of a sudden I was convinced the house was on fire and it was burning down. I was just sitting in her bedroom and obviously the house wasn’t on fire, but there was nothing in me that didn’t think we were going to die.”

Emma Stone