I don’t know what is wrong with me.
I have this thing. About winter. About cold. About snow and ice. About emptiness.
I’ve tried to move past it, to talk myself out of it, to pretend to think differently. It never works. There’s something about bad, ugly, frigid, dangerous weather in the fall and winter that utterly destroys me. It reminds me of how frigid my life is. How bleak.
I can’t function. I can’t cope. I am plunged into despair, depression and anger. I resent the stress of having to drive to work on snow or ice covered roads. I resent the risk. I am terrified. I am undone and unable to appreciate the beauty of the winter landscape, if indeed there is anything beautiful about ice and sleet. Hate doesn’t even come close to describing how deeply I despise winter weather. Detest. Abhor. Loathe. There aren’t enough despicable words available.
So why do I live where there is winter weather? Where roads are treacherous, days are short and the air assaults me every time I walk out my door between November and early March.
It’s totally about money. I don’t have any. I’ve never had enough to be able to move to a place where I really wanted to live. You know, a place without winter. I’ve not been able to find a job in one of those locations. Those places where snow is an anomaly. Where light jackets in the dead of winter are more than adequate. Where sweaters are usually unnecessary apparel. Where boots are worn for fashion and not for warmth.
People say winter is beautiful. To me, it is deadly. A deadly beauty. If deadly can be considered beautiful. Because, you see, winter is out to get me. It’s out to kill me. To destroy me. To annihilate me. To freeze me solid.
It intricately paints its face with ice and snow and complex crystals, muffling harsh sound, covering the deadness of the season with patterns that sparkle, inciting people to love and follow it. But its goal is to dent and incapacitate your car, put you in the hospital, kill you, cause you harm, maim you, hurt you, freeze you. It’s trying to swat you like a fly. To squash you like a bug. It lures you in, making you think it’s harmless, and then flings you into oncoming traffic, maximizing damage and inflicting incapacitating pain and stress. Winter is deadly. And it likes being deadly. It likes icing the world with deadly beauty, covering what it doesn’t want you to see, making people think everything is all in fun. Setting the trap. Drawing you in. Destroying you.
Build snowmen. Sled. Have a great snowball fight. Hunker behind your snow fort. Ice skate. But there is a price to pay.
White knuckles on the steering wheel, praying, praying, praying that you make it to where you are going without damage or harm. Praying, praying, praying that you aren’t injured or killed. Praying, praying, praying, begging, pleading, praying that you make it home in one piece.
There are people who laugh at me for being so terrified. I wish I wasn’t so terrified. I wish I could love winter the way they love winter.
I wish I could move to Southern California or Arizona or Texas or Florida. I wish.
Winter may be beautiful in many ways, but it has a hidden agenda. A deadly agenda.
Winter is also the season of my first memories of being sexually abused by my father. Not the first time it happened, but the first time I was old enough to process what was happening without being able to retreat into fantasy.
“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes…”
“Let me help you warm up…”
“Doesn’t that feel better?”
Death and destruction hide in the cold and ice. In the snow and dark. In my father’s eyes. In his icy soul. In his dead heart.
The beauty of it all, of the snow on branches, fluffy drifts that cover the barren ground, is nothing more than a facade. It changes nothing. All it does is hide the ugliness beneath.
Just as his smile and supposed kindness hid the ugliness that was at the core of his heart.
He told me his penis would make me feel better. When he rubbed it on me and ejaculated on me. When he put it inside of me. He lied.
He put winter in me. With his seed.
He froze me.
I hate winter. As much as I hated being raped by my father.
Both were icy cold. Heartless. Frigid.
Winter is deadly.
Life is deadly.
It guts you, without remorse.
There really isn’t any beauty in it. It’s all a facade.