It’s December, again.
I’m fighting against the urge to write a column about the unnatural passage of time, again.
Everything is happening all over again, and I don’t know how to stop it.
My mood is solar-powered, but the days are getting shorter, and my nights stretch on endlessly without the promise of sleep.
I’m losing sleep, again. I can’t find motivation for anything, again.
It’s all happening again, and I’m so sick of the repetitive years.
For a few short months, a few blindingly bright moments, I was exactly who I wanted to be.
I spend December dreading January, and January is nothing but the unending fight to make it to February.
Every day has become a countdown to nothing but another countdown, and I think I’m getting sick, again. Nausea is a constant feeling at the base of my throat; I watched the clock’s second hand spin in circles for too long, and now I’m motion sick.
I count down the words until I’ve reached the word count, I count down the hours left in the day, the days left in the week, and the weeks left in the month; everything is a blur, and I must be missing something, but I can’t even bring myself to care because I haven’t seen the sun in weeks, and it’s December, again.
For a few short months, a few blindingly bright moments, I was exactly who I wanted to be. My work was done on time, and I could look at PowerSchool without wanting to die. I woke up without headaches and wrote columns about the beauty of every minuscule part of my life. I laughed, and I talked. I was energetic and alive.
I don’t think I’m alive anymore, again.
I’ve seen this all before; last December and the one before that have faded into background noise. I am trying to remind myself that I am alive no matter the month, but everything is dull. Muffled.
I forgot all my favorite parts of myself in October, including the ability to clean my room, so I sit on my bed and steel myself for another day spent grieving the person I wish I could be.
I swear, I was good for a while. I promise there was at least a little while where the energy that filled me was more than anxious and stressed.
The summer months—even early autumn—found me high in treetops and floating on glistening waters.
October saw me lying on the beach, laughing, facing the sun, and denying the impending November.
The sun disappeared in the bleak November days. I stared at it until it disappeared behind the grayscale sky. Until the tree branch iced over, and I slipped to the ground. I crashed through branches, lying broken underneath, staring at the sky, wishing for the sun.
I’ve been spending my days longing for sunshine, again.
The countdowns are making me sick, again.
I’ve lost all my motivation, again.
I long to feel alive, again.
It’s December, again.
