6 Apr 2025

Spring amnesia

When subjectivity meets seasonal depression

If you would have asked me a month ago, if I lived in a beautiful place, I would have replied with a resounding no. I would have complained about the bitter cold, the few hours of daylight and the disgusting road salt infused sludge that covers our roads. I would have gestured towards the fields surrounding my grey city, covered in vegetation tortured by wind, rain and cold, dying if not already dead and decaying.

To the seasonally depressed, times are bad. Somehow, his reality seems to resemble Dante´s vision of purgatory. The glass is half empty, the account balance looks inadequate, and the future seems to only hold only war and misery. Without doubt, a dignified life can not be lead on this planet of Hoth.

On a particularly rainy morning, preparing for his day job in Sweden´s own Novosibirsk, he puts on his military surplus raincoat from the 1960´s. Adorned in this heavy plastic coated fabric, on a motorcycle 2 years his senior, he sets out to sail the ocean that is forming on the motorway.

Gazing down the road through his rain covered visor, the seasonally depressed has a new feeling. His chest is getting bombarded by raindrops, accelerated by his own speed and the headwind brought upon him by Zeus. But no water penetrates the 60 year old olive green coat. The seasonally depressed has taken the weather on, and he is winning. For a moment, he no more feels like controlled by the elements, he feels like a hero charging into them head on. A display of defiance and spite against whatever god has wronged him all winter.

When the sinus curve gets steep

21st of December is the darkest day of the year. A reminder to the seasonally depressed that things are dark, really dark. Someone might jokingly say that “Well, now it can only get lighter”, and even though they are technically right, it sure does not feel like it. For when the sinus curve describing the amount of daylight we get each day is at it´s lowest point, it´s derivative is also zero. The darkness will dwell for a while longer, the days only becoming a few seconds longer each day. The seasonally depressed lives on.

As much as all good things come to and end, so must also the bad things. Last week, the seasonally depressed woke up to his last day on earth. Riding to work, he notices once again the disgusting pavement of “Novosibirsk” being hit with some timid sun rays. He notices the extra sweater under his jacket starting to feel a bit hot, maybe completely redundant. He tries to stay gloomy, as is his purpose, but catches himself engaging with colleagues, cracking jokes, adding emojis to his emails. Was this just a fluke, or a death sentence approaching?

As the work day comes to an end, hearing motorcycles playfully revving as they go by his workplace, he feels almost obliged to go for a ride. Mid corner on a back road, the sentence is finally carried out. Opening his visor, the cold winter air has been replaced with spring air, which mercilessly pierces straight through his cranium. First, it enters the prefrontal cortex, destroying all higher level thoughts of misery and darkness. It goes on to obliterate the motor cortex, relaxing his shoulders and unclenching his jaw. Next it decimates his sensory cortex, so that the cold wind and rain can no longer be felt. Before finalising its trajectory, and exiting the skull, the spring air also grazes the parietal lobe, containing the visual cortex. A cold blooded execution has been carried out upon the seasonally depressed, he is no more.

The wheels keep turning through the corner. On the old bike now sits a stranger, or maybe an old acquaintance? Did the violence destroy his brain, making him forget the hate he feels towards the landscape he travels through? Or is it still somehow functioning, choosing to forgive the gods and the world around him. Can the damage to his visual cortex really be considered damage? The vision seems intact, now displaying a beautiful landscape filled with life and movement. If anything, it might have been recalibrated, using a more vivid colour palette. The nose, just moments ago filled with the smell of mud, decay and diesel smoke, now senses the smells of coffee, horses and freshly applied grease as the bike rolls by a stable.

The lobotomized rider turns of onto the first gravel road to the left. Relaxed, carefree, he opens his jacket to let some more air in. The rear tyre sends gravel flying as the throttle cracks open and the “carbies” some extra fuel into the engine.

I have survived another winter, it seems. Until next time, seasonal depression is dead.