All Summer in a Day

Winter is Coming

I can’t believe I’m writing an essay about weather. But maybe it’s an essay about seasonal depression. I love to feel good. I hate to feel bad. When people sigh, That’s life, I think, Gross.

Feed me a dopamine-serotonin stew. I want a massage. I want a puppy to sniff my neck. I want wine, prescription pills, strong-as-shit coffee, CBD gummies. Skies without sun plunge me into despair.

My boyfriend and I have been watching Game of Thrones—second time for him, first for me. The characters keep saying, ominously, “Winter is coming.” In their world, winter lasts years. I feel that.

When I lived in New York City, I’d sit each winter morning before a light box, trying to convince myself it was lifting my mood because it had cost $119.