The gales of November are icy and sharp.

Digging their cold, dead fingertips into my flesh, bone, and soul.

Leaving waves of frozen emotional debris in their path, these gales strike me down again year after year.

Blowing October leaves off of trees, snow on my neck, and darkness into my heart, the gales of November rip open old wounds.

These wounds have all but scabbed over, time and time again, because just as they begin to heal and fresh skin breaks, October forces it’s icy cold grip into the fresh skin that November then grasps onto and rips open further.

The gales of November bring with them harsh winters of depression and hibernation of body, mind and soul. I hide out in my home and in my head and cry cry cry until April brings with it some warmth and light and healing.

As these frigid drafts float into my world each November, I pull on an oversized hoodie of protection, strength, and comfort, knowing it won’t do the trick, but hoping beyond speck of hope that it will just this once.

I wrap myself up, cuddled in bed, refusing to leave until the storm of November subsides. I live in the calm afterward as lifelike as I can, knowing the numbness of the cold lingers on forever.

The gales of November rage on well after the month is over. Elsa says “the cold never bothered me anyway”, but as someone who has felt the icy cold of sadness and grief, I know Disney got that line wrong because damn the cold is bothersome this time of year.

The gales of November do more than just bother me. The force of these gales push me to my breaking point and throw me around like a ragdoll until I give up, lying in the fetal position, begging for the storm to end, the clouds to break, and the light of April to shine through.

Communicator. Educator. Empath. Survivor. Writer.