It’s Always August

I wonder if I was ever really a morning person or if I was just trying to spend as much time with the sun as possible…

I have always honored the sun. I rise with it when I can, and every day since the beginning of my memories, I have felt the sunset in my stomach. 

Watching the bright, golden globe of comfort sink helplessly in the sky tugs at my gut until I can take a breath deep enough to release the grip. I know from experience that horrible things happen during the light of day, but things feel colder at night. Evil feels more possible. 

As a child I used to crawl across the floor like a cat, shifting my naptime position with the sunspots on the carpet. I followed the sun across the living room until the cold absence of the last ray’s warmth would snatch me from my soft sleep. 

Even my heart aligns herself with the sun. I live to feed, warm, and nurture those I love. I want to provide for, and enlighten them. I want to radiate all the goodness I can muster directly into their hearts.

So I find it odd, and a little disrespectful, that August, the month when the sun burns brightest in Virginia, usually opens the door for my seasonal depression. You’d think someone like September would usher my depression in with the fall breeze, but no. It’s always August. 

I’ve circled the sun thirty times now, and I think I’ve finally got it. It’s not quite an antidote to August, but it will give me more than enough light to last through the winter. This year, in addition to therapy, I’m doing better at managing me. If it aligns, it’s fine. I give more time to the people who make my heart happy. I did that today, and have not a single regret about it.  I make art daily, no exceptions (this post is today’s art). Rest is mandatory and unavailability is key. I’m surrounded by self-imposed boundaries on all sides. I am safe. I am alive. And by making my own sunshine, I will continue to thrive.