When Summer Doesn’t Save You
As a culture we venerate summer, but when mental illness interferes with the image you’ve cultivated, what happens next?
Quick read: 771 words, 4 minute read What were your summer stats? I’m so desperate to know!?!? Stylise the last three months of your life into a curated montage of aesthetic photographs overlayed with ‘relatable’ bullet points. That girl's holiday to Greece? Check. Summer flings? Check. Wild nights out? Exclusive bars? New wardrobe? Check, check and check. You’re never going to be this young again! This is your time! The nights are long, the prosecco is flowing, and you have 3 months to live the life you have dreamed about all year… Except I can’t move my legs? I have legs, functional legs, legs that just over a month ago walked me across the stage for my university graduation. But lying face down on my bedroom floor at 3 pm, clammy skin chafing on stained carpet, the soft late August sun prickling my left cheek as it streamed mockingly from under my closed blinds, I would have told you with complete certainty that I physically couldn’t move.
Towards the tail end of the summer before last, I found myself spiralling into what ended up being one of the worst depressive episodes of my life. Less than ideal, and safe to say it knocked out the end of my ‘brat’ summer with less of a ceremonious bang, and more of a slow, agonising fizzle. As an extra thorn in my side, I'd worked diligently on my tan during June and July… come August, the only people in the position to witness my efforts became my GP and counsellor… they didn’t appreciate the graft. And therein lies one of the key problems I’ve found during my 5 year long battle with mental illness; it doesn’t always cooperate with the taste pastels of your ‘manifesting summer 2024’ Pinterest board.
With more sincerity, dealing with depression at any time of the year is horrendous; however, I would argue that the uninvited arrival of a depressive episode during the summer months is particularly bleak. As a culture, we cling to the idea of summer all year, worshipping June, July, and August like deities. The allure of long days and holidays in the sun beckons us through winter, and naturally, the pressure to enjoy the season becomes more palpable with every dark and rainy 7 am commute. Then it arrives… and you just can’t enjoy it. I remember feeling so helpless as the days I had clung to since November melted together and slipped unceremoniously through my fingers. The world began to muffle, bedroom lint dried my mouth raw and my ensuing pleas of resistance became stiff, then unnatural, then futile, then too exhausting to utter. The early mornings and late nights were less of a novelty to be enjoyed and quickly became suffocating; my existence increasingly stale, reminiscent of the uncomfortable clinging of clothes to sweat. Yet, outside of what my eyes had tainted, I could see that summer's unwavering clarity had continued for everyone else; guilt gnawing at my limp body with limited opposition.
One of the cruelties of depression is the strain it can place on your relationships and friendships, while simultaneously making it more difficult to mend them with much efficacy. The inescapable fatigue and chronic self-criticism that creeps into your life become a perfect breeding ground for isolation and loneliness, and suddenly, that TikTok you see of a group of friends drinking Aperol spritzes on Primrose Hill packs an extra sting. So, staring at that 7-inch screen, a block of blue light framing your face, you can’t help but feel this is just not how I thought this would go.
For a while, I was itching with self-loathing for ‘wasting’ my summer, unintentionally treating my depression like a self-inflicted burden I could have shifted with enough willpower, a decidedly untrue and unproductive analysis. Summer’s ability to magically rejuvenate your neurotransmitters works better in pre-scripted scenarios than in actuality. The phrase ‘give yourself grace’ has been so overused that it slightly makes my skin crawl, but in this instance, it was very apt. Forgive my trivialisation, but sometimes basic language is the best descriptor; It absolutely sucks when your summer doesn’t go to plan, it sucks even more when that's due to mental illness, and you have every right to wallow in that for a bit. However, the great thing about summer is… it will happen next year, and the next and the next. Relationships fluctuate, but remain accessible for rediscovery; bedrooms can be tidied, and winter outfits are so much cuter anyway.