Naked in Winter

[parasitegirl]

It snowed yesterday in Tokyo. If pressed hard I will admit that snow and other aspects of winter can be beautiful…but this was different. Snow in Tokyo is a thing out of place，unnatural, as it whirls around the many shades of grey and dies a wet death against the concrete. Snow in Tokyo is the uninvited guest, the name you do not want to hear, the truth of things you cannot control. It is not colder than the Wisconsin winters I grew up with but you can feel it as it slices through your jackets, you skin, your many layers of protective tissue, and settles into your bones. The core of your body seems to shrink and you cannot crawl far enough inside yourself to stay warm. With me this is not a metaphor, as my fingers and toes, no matter how well wrapped, become painful to touch. The chill slips under windows, through doorways, through your every defense, and finds you. Even you lover’s breath feels cold against your shoulder blade as you try to slip into sleep.

 

Annie Dillard, in her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek wrote “Winter reveals what summer conceals.” This speaks louder to me each year.
 
It is a cliché to say that I write because I must, that I don’t feel I have a choice in such matters, but it is true. In summer I can enjoy my writing. I can bloom and play. Under the summer sun the verbal riffs vine out from my fingers and lips in great fecundity, crawling this way and that, embellishing buildings and people with curlicues, vivid leaves, and shallow roots. Winter is stark in contrast. In winter the leaves have fallen. My skin, dry and brittle, resembles bark more than flesh. In winter my words are dark and naked, clearly delineated against the sky. You can see all the twists, the knobs, the vulnerability of young branches and there is nothing that protects you from the sun. When I speak in winter I picture my words dark with ink, bleeding at the edges. Sometimes when I talk, I can see the words imprinting the faces of those who are listening.
 
The winter sun does not warm you, it simply shows you everything. This is also what Seasonal Affective Disorder does. It leaves you naked, surrounded by things that seem too sharp in focus. No detail escapes you. You glance over at the person next to you who is also waiting for the train and you see get more information that a simple face. You see where the lips have cracked, bleed, and are struggling to heal. You see the nicotine stain on an eye-tooth. You see where the seams will soon give out on a fitted jacket…you learn too much too quickly.
 
In winter I see and feel so much. It all happens too quickly. My mind cannot sort, prioritize, and generally gather itself in time before my body reacts. The adrenaline pours, the tears seep, the exhaustion batters me. When I am holding back in an attempt to give my mind time to process, I pace, I fidget, and sometimes I shake my head quickly as if loosen or tighten a thought. And when I lay down, unable to push myself further, it often takes a half hour before my heart stops pounding. My tears, my rage, my exhaustion in winter are real. They are the product of real events. I can’t point my finger at winter and skip the blame. But the abundance, the quick spiking nature, and the overwhelming wave of them, that’s what winter produces.
 
And then I must write or talk. I thrust my roots father into the cold earth. I straighten my spine. I push my dark words out into the cold air. I do what I can to survive until the spring.
 
In order to sort my thoughts I gather words. I speak in blunt sentences. Every truth has the same weight and is delivered in the same manner. The punctuation of a wry laugh or downcast eyes does very little to help. These moments may be hard to read, but that is nothing in comparison to what it must feel like to hear me when I reach this point.
 
I’ve gotten better over time. Those who were close to me before and during the diagnoses can attest to it…at least they can bear witness to the fact that it could be worse. In the past I was not so through, and I was less aware of the impact of my words. I couldn’t explain myself as well…my voice would just cut through a fight, a situation, or a dark bedroom, and strike…and it didn’t stick around to tend the wounds it left. Now I warn, I still strike, I deal with the aftermath as best I can.
 
Winter’s cruel thorn is this: It is when I am the most vulnerable and yet always on guard. It is when I run and when I cannot get out of bed. In winter you learn the most about me…I am hardest to hold in winter but I need to be touched.
 

Do not worry too much. If it were too much for me I wouldn't be writing.