By all accounts, hibernation is a painful process.
Mythologised by
hopeful humans, we read it as an idyllic time for animals, when they
get to eat as much as they like, pile on fat, and then slumber
joyfully for months, missing the winter entirely. No cold, no
depression, no dark thoughts. Just endless, delightful sleep. Every
hibernation is a fluffy dormouse or a podgy black bear curled in its
den, cute and inviting and perfect.
"Grizzly just wants to sleep" by Corin Garnett-Law is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0 |
Except it’s not.
Hibernation isn’t really sleep. It isn’t really wakefulness. It’s
described as an ‘energy saving period of extended torpor’ –
which sounds a lot like depression or a bad bout of poor executive
function. It’s a kind of waking nightmare of sleep paralysis, from
which you have to rouse yourself every now and then to make sure you
don’t die – ironically, so you can get a chance to sleep.
That resonates with
me. Winter as a waking nightmare. Winter as a time when you’re
trapped by the cold and the weather and the limitations of your own
body and mind. Winter as a time when you lie in bed or sit on the
sofa desperately wanting to do
something, but just unable to move. It’s an inability to get the
car started, an inability to strike a spark to make a flame. The
world is there, but you can’t touch it, grasp it, and let you take
it in its flow.
Today
the weather is bright and sunny. Today is the first day in many
months when I’ve felt able to write a blog post, the blog post I’m
writing now. Today I feel able to put away piles of washing, do the
washing up, make phone calls. Ironically, I also feel under the
weather, so while my mind is willing my body doesn’t agree. Coughs
and colds come hand in hand with grim weather and shorter days.
So,
today I have woken up enough to realise that I do hibernate through
winter. I don’t hibernate like a dormouse in a children’s story.
I hibernate like a mammal who puts its head down and just tries to
survive through winter, while the demons batter at the doors of its
mind. I wake up every now and then, sometimes enough to scream at the
darkness, sometimes enough to feel that I might be able to face it.
Sometimes I look up and realise the days are getting longer.
Sometimes I feel like there will never be long summer evenings of
benevolent warmth.
Pancake
day, Easter Sunday, May Day. These things will come, with creeping
slowness, with creeping inevitability. When summer is here, I will no
longer be able to imagine the darkness and cold. I will be alive
again.