Summer is your worst season.
Letâs start with the basics: heat. Itâs too damn hot no matter where you go, from the beach to your bed beside the fan, or the river that runs alongside your apartment. The medications that make you sane and functional take away more than your sex drive: they take your bodyâs own ability to regulate its temperature.
No more days of walking outside in a black hoodie, not a drop of sweat on you. High school seems like a cool, distant memory. Maybe itâs not just the meds, but the climbing temperatures and erratic weather patterns as well. Or both.
But due to this your body always hurts, youâre always sticky with sweat, and phantom pains buzz around your old surgery site. You feel like you canât walk too much or youâll pass out from the heat. It saps you of energy and patience, making it second, close first, for losing friends.
What they donât understand is you teach small children for eight hours a day in unconditional classrooms. Their little bodies radiate heat, especially after recess and their hair is dripping with sweat. This is the season you repeatedly almost pass out, especially when you have your period, and have to stumble to the hallways before collapsing. They donât understand that after shaping your body into A B Câs and singing and running around, youâre exhausted and at your limit.
Speaking of heat, hereâs the next reason: your body. Once thin and light, youâre now at your heaviest, teetering the line between ânormal weightâ and âoverweightâ depending on the BMI chart. Youâve exchanged bikinis for one pieces, now big shirts and skirts that are waterproof or that you donât mind getting salt water on. At least this is the season you eat the least, because food in the heat makes you sick.
Sweat clogs pores and your back is dotted with acne from it. Same under and between your boobs. Bugs are back and bite, leaving you to wonder: fuck are they mites again, or just because I sat in the grass the other day?
You feel like a beached whale dotted with barnacles, bloated and tired and ready to explode. Spill your guts everywhere, in the sand, in the ocean, on onlookers and cars and streets. Dye it all red, like your face after walking home in 90 degree weather.
Last but not least: trauma.
Apparently your body doesnât give a shit that you spend upwards of $1,000 on therapy a year. The conclusions your brain has reached over 5 years of agonizing conversations and sobbing and screaming and laughing has stopped just there: in your brain. Not even the whole thing, just the reasoning portions.
The body holds trauma like a storage unit that will never get bid upon. February March April May you remain, for the most part, light hearted and reassuring to everyone around you. You might have the same work schedule but your body is cooler and nothing of note has happened in the past that rocks your body with anxiety and deep sorrow.
June comes, and with it a constant nausea, from the heat and your birthday. Despite everyone looking forward to theirs, you almost wish yours would go by like a whisper, barely heard nor recognized. But the child in you screams in delight at birthdays past, with treasure chest cakes and water sprinklers and wrapped presents. The young adult and teenage you curls up in fear and self hate, feeling unworthy of anything, screaming and sobbing when you get $200 from grandma. You thought youâd gotten past it, flaunt fake confidence in front of others and say âitâs my birthday and Iâm important!â For a laugh or a smile and eye roll. They think you really feel this way. You donât. You hate it. You donât want to get older. You donât want the attention you donât deserve.
Being born is not a celebration for you. The gift of life you never asked for and tried so many times to throw away. A wretched, fetid present, a box filled with placenta and umbilical cord crawling with maggots and fat biting flies. The gift of life. What a joke. Itâs the responsibility of life. The burden of life. The sometimes-joy of life.
June is when you were kicked out. When your goods were smashed on the blacktop, and your mother screamed to get out of her sight. June is when you packed your life into a backpack and lived out of that for weeks until you found a temporary home in your managers guest room. Than some sofas. Then your first apartment. Your body remembers the fight and flight, even if itâs dull. A blade is still a blade, even if its edge no longer shines and is filled with nicks and cracks. It can still hurt. It still hurts.
Itâs an unknowable ache that holds onto you until July, like a tick ripped off but its head remains.
So, summer is your worst season. You were born in it, you were cast away in it. You sweat and bake in it, you bite your skin and slam your head in it. You run along sand and ocean in it. You cover your body in it. You tremble with weakness in it. Fuck summer. Fuck summer. Fuck summer.
jimmyeatworldofficial
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