Don’t know about you, but September has always given me New Year vibes.
It doesn’t just stem from childhood and starting a new school year, with new teachers, fresh exercise books, new shoes, etc. It’s more than that. It’s in the air. It’s the shortening days and crisp mornings. It’s the harvesting of produce and the garden beginning to go quiet. It’s the days suddenly gaining more structure after several loose, languid weeks.
September has always felt like a line drawn in the sand, in a good way. You step over it – consciously, intentionally – into a new beginning, refreshed and ready. Much more so than January 1st (which I roll into, half-asleep, with a stomach full of pastry and a brain full of Christmas movie guff).
I normally attack September – autumn in general – with gusto. I love this time of year. We busy ourselves preserving for the winter, putting the garden to bed (not yet, but soon), and getting back out on walks.
Not this September. So far, I’ve found myself (emotionally) at sea. In a funk. I’ve been back from England for a couple of weeks and, at first, I was weirdly exhausted and disorientated. I fell asleep several times a day. Any time I sat down in a comfy chair, I’d drop off instantly. I’d wake several times in the night, confused about where I was and who was in the bed next to me. I’d wake up in the morning and think, ‘Oh, this old shit again,’ and have to force myself out of bed. I felt desperate to exercise and get out on walks, but physically unwilling to move.
Everything was an effort. And all the normal feelings that I relish in September – being on the cusp of change, new beginnings – were too much. I was being grumpy (grumpier than usual, that is), demanding (ahem, more than usual), difficult (yes, yes, more than usual). I was a confusing combo of lethargic and explosively angry.
Let’s just say it’s been a fun time for Rob.
I’m coming back around to normal now. This week I’ve thrown myself into everyday (non-work) tasks, like cooking down garden produce for the freezer, making sauerkraut, dying herbs. I’ve made lovely meals and baked bread (both things I hadn’t done for about six weeks). I’ve got back into my exercise routine (also neglected for about six weeks).
I still feel a bit weird about the bigger tapestry of life. I can’t shake this feeling that too many things are changing, and not for the better. Life in the UK seems … depressing, to be honest. The world is going to shit. We have nine fucking cats now (no bugger wanted the kittens, although by this point, we’re so attached to them we wouldn’t give them up anyway). And good friends of ours – people we see almost every week – are about to leave Bulgaria to start a new life back in England. We’re going to miss them.
Time is flying by so quickly. Too bloody quickly.
I guess this is, in a vague way, a post about grief and sadness. How I would love to have one more conversation with my (recently departed) nan and ask her … well, anything. Anything at all.
But I’m also majorly hormonal. Possibly peri-menopausal. My periods are haywire. I haven’t been able to concentrate since, oh, February. All of which is super-fun. Highly recommended. 10/10.
There’s a line in the sand, you see. And this September I feel like I’ve been mugged and shoved over that line, involuntarily. I wasn’t ready. Yet there’s no going back.
Well, wasn’t this cheery? I’m fine. I honestly feel better than I have in weeks. (You should have seen me when I first came back to Bulgaria. Good lord!) I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t feel better. I’d just be writing about courgettes and stamping down my feelings.
Anyway, how are you? Does September give you New Year vibes?
And the world is going to shit, right? It’s not just me being a hormonal diva?