Summertime SADness

Seasonal depression hits harder when it coincides with the hottest summer in human history.

In June, a heavy storm blew through Jackson in under an hour, knocking down trees and snapping power lines. Our power was out for three days. Those days were brutal, though the temperatures were more bearable than they are now. We found reprieve in the backyard baby pool, at a nearby Denny’s (where all the other patrons were also charging their devices), and in my in-laws' living room (their power was out, too, but they hooked their TV and AC window unit to a generator and we sat in that room for a few hours each day). 

Three days without light, wifi, and AC was rough. But what was most unsettling, was how much that lack of power disrupted my daily sense of safety, comfort, and routine. I felt disconnected, anxious, angry. I couldn’t be productive, or work on my writing. I couldn’t garden because it was too hot. I snapped at my family members. During those long days, I realized how much I depend on my artificially cooled environment in order to function. Electricity is—superficially, undeniably, depressingly—vital to my sense of self.

This realization shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, given the Jackson water crisis we lived through last summer. It’s just too easy to default back to normal once a crisis has passed and the infrastructure is repaired (or, more realistically, patched). Part of that default is simply self-preservation—living in a state of hyper-vigilance is draining and unhealthy—but the other part is an unwillingness to grapple with the fragility of our human-built systems, the vulnerability of our bodies and our constructed realities.

If that sounds dark, then please excuse my SAD—Seasonal Affective Disorder—brain. I get SAD in the summer here in the Deep South, when it’s too hot and mosquito-ey for most outdoor fun, but too cold indoors to not pack a sweater wherever you go. This year, my SAD is even SADder. Those days without power in June were just the beginning of what has turned out to be a cooker of a summer, in which the heat has not just been oppressive, but ominous: July 4 was our planet’s hottest day on record in 100,000 years. In Jackson, the temperature continues to reach the triple digits, with the air heavy as a brick wall. When the heat is this literal, the effects of global warming are impossible to ignore.

We haven’t really talked much about climate change here at Rooted, and yet climate plays an enormous role in our sense of place and home. My friend (and Rooted contributor) Celeste Schueler, who lives in Seattle, frequently tells me how much she pines for muggy Southern summers. For many Mississippi expats, nothing feels more like home than sultry summer nights filled with the sound of chirping frogs and screeching cicadas. 

And for the most part, I love living in a warm, semi-tropical climate. It comes with plenty of perks, like mild winters, lots of sun, and the ability to grow food and flowers year-round. The scorching hot summers, though, are hard. And climate change is making them harder—and more dangerous. In the US, extreme heat kills more people each year than hurricanes, floods, and tornadoes combined. Combine that heat with more frequent power outages due to more freak storms, and the Deep South has got a very significant climate-induced public health issue on its hands.

But it’s not just the Deep South. When I was growing up in Denver, I didn’t understand that Colorado’s ongoing drought, dwindling snowfall, and out-of-control wildfires that darkened the sky with smoke were symptoms of a rapidly warming atmosphere. Either I wasn’t paying attention, or I was stuffing my worries in my back pocket. All the clues seem so obvious now. 

Back then, when I was dreaming of the places I’d one day live, I never took climate change and global warming into account. It felt like a distant problem that I’d maybe contend with one day, but that really would only affect people who lived in places surrounded by water—Venice or Micronesia or Corpus Christie—places where I’d probably never live. 

But now, one of the major factors I consider when thinking about the potential places where my family and I might move, should we ever leave Mississippi, is the likelihood of climate disaster. There’s no amount of money you could pay me to move to Phoenix, or any other hot desert metropolis with a dwindling water supply. (Jackson’s water may not be drinkable, but at least there’s plenty of it.) Summer fire season and the resulting poor air quality—combined with astronomical housing prices—make moving West look increasingly unappealing. I love New Orleans, but the threat of hurricanes and breaking levees is too scary for me.

Every year, the geographic calculus becomes more complicated, and that’s aside from considering factors like the housing market, childcare costs, job prospects, proximity to family, and political landscape. It’s enough to make me want to just stay in place, buy a generator, and ride out Mississippi’s unpredictable tornados, storms, and floods forever. At least that’s familiar.

If living here has taught me anything, it’s that one should never blindly trust the infrastructure or the people in power. Mississippi’s leadership continues to act as if global warming is a hoax, and our country continues to fail to take meaningful action on lowering carbon emissions. Which means the summers will only get hotter and longer, a reality which spins my brain into a heat-stricken SAD spiral. 

Soon we’ll be visiting friends in Michigan for a taste of their summer temps: highs that hover in the upper 70s and lows that dip into the 60s. I’m sure I’ll be fantasizing about moving to the Upper Peninsula, even though I know a Michigan winter would break me. For now, I’m white knuckling my way through August, looking ahead to that first taste of fall in October when the humidity breaks and I no longer need super-strength antiperspirant for a thirty second walk across the grocery store parking lot. 

I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Do you get SAD in the summer? Has climate change played a role in your sense of safety, or your plans for relocation? Did a storm knock your power out, too? Feel free to kvetch below.

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And if you’re just joining us, catch up on these fabulous (and far more hopeful) contributor issues from July.

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Lauren Rhoades is a Mississippi transplant, pro-choice mom, and Eudora Welty fangirl. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Rooted Magazine.