Every August, I am so fucking sad. I’ve always kinda hated the summer, even when I was a kid. I don’t like swimming or water sports. I don’t like to sweat, my skin burns like bacon, and my favorite outfits all involve long pants and long sleeves. When other kids were squeezing the last moments of summer out, I was telling my parents I was ready to go back to school, that I was bored. But my brother, he was a summer guy. He went to summer camps all over the state, was a avid swimmer and loved the outdoors. He liked summer afternoon baseball games. Summer was when he got to hang out with kids like himself, do activities adapted to his needs.

So, it didn’t help my general summer mood when in August 2017, my brother died. I’m not going to get into it, but to say it was the worst day of my life. Now August is an annual reminder of what I am missing. There is so much to be said about my brother and his life, but this piece is about me. This piece is about MY experience in the summer.

But I am having trouble stringing together a consistent expedience of what summer really means to me. My therapist asked me this week, “how did you get through this last August.” And. I don’t know. I don’t remember. I remember it being terrible, unbearable, but I don’t remember how it felt. I remember playing 24 consecutive hours of Terraria and the relief of the numb I felt, but not what I was numbing.

I know what it feels like now. Like every year a little more of the guy I love slips away from me. Like every year I become a little less recognizable to the brother I had. Like there is a ache in my chest that is folding in on itself. Like I am hungry all the time, but I lack to motivation to cook, or order food, or even raise the fork to my mouth. Like I can’t feel my fingers. Like everything other then this horrible thing inside me is meaningless. Most of all though, I feel like I can’t put the feeling to words that a me of the past of future will ever be able to decipher, much less another living soul. I feel isolated, not just from others, but from all other versions of myself. It is a unique isolation to look forward in my own life and know, I will be there in September, but I will be someone else.

That is the comfort though. I will be there in September. I don’t know how, or what I’ll have to do. I don’t know what I will have to change to survive, but I will be here when September comes, when the leaves start to fall. I may not remember what August feels like, but I remember distinctly every year, when fall finally descends. I remember the first full breath in months. I remember the cool breeze and the excitement in my skin. I remember my bummed co-workers, mourning their summer activities. I know that day is coming. I intend to be patient.