Iced Borscht

I love summer but it’s usually the time that Seasonal Affective Disorder menaces me.

I always worry that summer will end too soon. That explains my SAD to an extent.  Perhaps it’s a melodramatic metaphor for life in general, even though I’ve never been fearful of death. Wikipedia says:

People who experience summer SAD (spring and summer depression) show symptoms of classic depression including insomnia, anxiety, irritability, decreased appetite, weight loss, social withdrawal, and a decreased sex drive.

That’s pretty accurate. A burglary at my house in late May didn’t do me any emotional favors. Depression set in immediately thereafter, and it’s still here, lingering.

Most people don’t understand the sense of violation that occurs when looking around your home, seeing your possessions strewn about, knowing mere minutes earlier some animals were running their hands through it all. The disturbance doesn’t leave your head for awhile. Just finding the energy to clean up is daunting.

By and large, friends and family exhibited a weird non-reaction to the burglary. Right or wrong, I interpreted their silence as apathy. Sure, a few folks chimed in with “hang in there” comments, but the widespread non-reaction was unexpected and strange.

All summer long I’ve felt like a dumb ghost, looking through a window at a party where everyone I know is laughing, enjoying themselves. I’m outside, estranged from the whole thing.

On top of it all, our cat died today.

But there’s no point wallowing in self-pity.  Note Christopher Hitchens’ recent comments in discussing his newly diagnosed cancer:

To the dumb question “Why me?” the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: Why not?

That’s true.

XXX