Originally published in August 2020.
Ever feel like you’re suspended in goo? I’m an air bubble in a bottle of hair gel right now, that’s what’s happening. Be it depression, anxiety, seasonal affective disorder, or an errant moon phase, there is nothing about anything that appeals to me right now. For the last few days, I haven’t wanted to do anything beyond nothing. Take the word “nothing” to the very limits of its use. This mood or vapor has hit with such potency that I’ve found myself standing in the middle of my apartment, not knowing what to do while simultaneously feeling void of the desire or energy for any task or activity at all. Maybe if I name it, I’m not losing my faculties: Welcome to my Mid-August Malaise.
A Mid-August Malaise is an ill wind. An atmosphere of apathy. It’s a stale saltine cracker existence, entirely unappetizing with an overtone of utter uselessness. It descended upon me suddenly and without any identifiable cause. Things are, 2020 notwithstanding, pretty normal and quiet right now. So what gives? Why, in this moment, do I lack the energy to peel an orange? In the mornings I can wring out something resembling productivity, which is how this work of art came to exist, but if it hasn’t happened by 11 a.m., brother it ain’t happening. Nothing can crank my inner workings to make me move. Everything feels imposing, even the most passive of tasks. The arrival of an email in my inbox feels like being touched while having a full-body ache.
I make jokes on the internet because that’s my coping mechanism, but this is actually deeply unsettling. I’ve had bad moods before; heaven knows my anxiety and I have each other on speed dial. But this is different, this is completely consuming and immobilizing. It is also extremely new. I’ve never felt a malaise like this before — this shit has legs. And while the fact that I’m biologically female and also a human being means I’m prone to hormonal cycles, this isn’t PMS. This is adverse possession.
A normal person might take a vacation. But circumstances, the least of which are a global pandemic and a massively shaken freelance income, mean that summer 2020 shall be a vacationless one. All of these clever little Instagram jaunts and group trips to Airbnbs probably aren’t helping my mental moroseness. Hell, I’ve even found myself scowling at a girl with a baby pool on her porch — such is my current deprivation. To add insult to ineptitude, all of my usual mental transports aren’t working. There’s no film, book, or recipe that can spark my interest, and anyway those activities all require some sort of participation on my part, which I can’t seem to summon. It is a strange suspension in place, this malaise, both in its mental foggery and the fact that I really don’t really have anywhere to go but my house. I take a walk every morning, for health.
I hate summer, which might shed some light on my condition; there’s something about oppressive heat radiating into concrete in a city where I have no car and must, therefore, walk everywhere that really takes the wind out of my sails. Also, there is no wind, only a steam cloud of humidity so thick it’s almost visible to the human eye. It’s been suggested that indeed the weather is the source of my malady, but I don’t see how, in a year that’s apparently being imagined by Wes Craven, we can attribute my melancholy to any one cause.
An absence of knowledge and an abundance of chaos are my literal closest companions these days, so it really isn’t any wonder that I can’t be bothered to wash my hair.
I don’t need to list them for you. You wake, just as I do, to a dawn of fresh hells so consuming it’s possible to actually forget there’s an election in three months. Our world is being run like a crime ring and the most minimally intelligent among us burst into tantrum when asked to wear the very thing they wouldn’t want surgery performed upon them without. The actual postal service is in danger, (public) schools are raising money for vital protective assets they do not have despite the fact that they’re opening soon, and there are like, lots of things exploding right now. Exploding.
And there’s no end. No destination. My suspension in matter could be indefinite, for all I know. An absence of knowledge and an abundance of chaos are my literal closest companions these days, so it really isn’t any wonder that I can’t be bothered to wash my hair. What’s the fix, really? Am I waiting for a vaccine, or an asteroid? Honestly, I could give a fuck which one shows up first but if something could start to steer the ship on an identifiable course that would simply be the tits. Patience is a virtue, but 2020 is an application for sainthood.
When the idea of lying motionless on the floor sounds appealing (but of course I can’t do that because I haven’t had the energy to vacuum), something’s awry. I point this out not to fruitlessly complain, though that has its merits, but instead to offer community and understanding. If you too feel incapable of everything from earning a living to changing your socks, I see you. I don’t see an end to this, but I see you.
I keep hoping something will snap like a wet rubber band around kale and shock me out of this vanilla pudding mood. Mental, emotional, and physical sogginess don’t often hit me all at once, and when teamed-up I’m no match for them. Keeping calm and getting through it is the ticket I think, so know that if you have done little more this week than wonder why you can’t do more than you’ve done, you are not alone.
The Mid-August Malaise is real, and she is mighty. She laughs in the direction of summertime sadness and rolls her eyes at “Leo Season.” She doesn’t give a shit about the month you hoped to have. She’s the captain now.
Exercise self-compassion. Impose no rule, restriction, or deadline upon yourself. Keep the curtains drawn. Avoid zipper waists. We will get there, wherever “there” turns out to be. And let’s not speculate on that, let’s not tempt the fates. Let’s just do whatever we can to get through whatever this is.
And, if it helps, we’re 40 days away from fall.