Dear Seasonal Depression,

I used to be ecstatic, come the first snowfall of the year. I would imagine the sweetness of chocolate and marshmallow waltzing across my tongue as the aroma intoxicated me with joy.

But now, a part of me dreads the formation of crystallites on the hood of my car. My hands become clammy at the sight of the days growing short. And my heartbeat rises when I am reminded that everything around me is dead until the snow crawls back into its shell. Instead, I am intoxicated with numbing sadness that I can't seem to shake off.

You are strong. A force that decapitates me with every flake of snow that resides upon the cool earth. You are a blanket, covering every last inch of my body. You are why I laugh one second and hit a wall the next—the reason people who love me don't say anything and just know. The reason they stop talking and hold me until your venom has made its rounds through my veins. Sometimes you fade, but your presence seems to have morphed its way into my identity. When you've gone on your own vacation for the summer and let me finally live my life, it is strange. You are the reason I feel guilty when I'm happy; you trick me into thinking that I need you.

You give me no choice but to indulge in the lies you feed me. Each day your nails grow longer and wrap around my neck, suffocating me. You call my anxiety to the plate and point to your watch. My own time is ticking, you cruelly remind me, and I am not getting any younger. "January 8," you whisper, causing my sadness to deepen leading up to the day my mother passed. You are the reason I stare at walls and feel nothing and everything at the same time, tears falling from the storms in my eyes. You make me experience a constant free-falling. You take your serrated knife and rob me of my tongue, making it nearly impossible to express how I feel. You convince me that you are the only one I am to confide in.

Listen, you are strong. But I am stronger.

I rip you from my body like stitches hanging from a healed wound. I sprint to my loves and embrace them tightly, whispering all of the negative thoughts that you put into my mind. I let go and allow myself to feel love. I stop overthinking and let myself feel something other than you. I pierce my skin and bleed out your venom, fresh substance taking over instead. You are not who I am. I am not Sadness.

I am worth life. I am loved. I am more than what you put me through. I am beautiful. I am intelligent. I am empathetic. I am important. I am more than what you tell me I am.

Your entire existence depends on me feeling you. You depend on me. I do not depend on you.

I have a choice. I choose to be happy. I choose to feel no guilt. You are a master manipulator, and my hands are out of playing cards. I am done with your games.

But each year is the same— a cycle of inevitability. You come. I fall. I overcome. I fall. I overcome. I fall. Until next year.

Some days I can fight better than other days, but I can choose to never stop fighting. And that, Old Friend, is the one thing you can never take away from me.

Sincerely,

Me