Monthly Archives: May 2013

Unrelated

Here’s what it feels like to be sad.

It comes on suddenly and without reason, which makes it scarier. It brings with it the fear of being a little bit crazy, a little bit irrational, and totally out of control. How do you fix something that you don’t understand?

I feel like I’m floating in sadness, like outer space. Just out of orbit, but also close enough to be pulled back in, if only there was someone who would reach out.

And then no one does—how would they know?—and I am falling, falling, falling into a deep and heavy sadness. It is muted, like being underwater or not being able to get your ears to pop. It is all-consuming, filling my thoughts and body, leaving me constantly exhausted. I feel sick and I wake every day dry-heaving. I have to stop my car one morning on the way to work so I can vomit in the middle of the road.

It feels like everything and nothing at the same time. Exhausting and inescapable, it never stops.

Days pass. The desire for others diminishes—there is no way to accurately explain what is happening, that I am emotionally out of my mind. And I cling to the only sense of control I have—my ability to force loneliness on myself. My life is spiraling and I am pushing everyone away.

A well-meaning somebody suggests that I can just stop, if I wanted, as if being sad is a choice I am making. I consider this—let it consume me—and now I am still sad, and I feel like a failure. I start to cry, for the first time since the sadness began, actually. It’s like breaking the seal when drunk, and now I can’t stop. I cry those loud, guttural sobs that shake your body and leave you spent.

I yearn for human contact, but fall apart when faced with the realization that, of course, all other life was carrying on without me and now I am behind. I am scared of being abandoned, but even more terrified of what others will say if I put this into words. The sadness grows, darkens, and hardens me.

I finally call you after 2AM, accusatory, disappointed, angry, and still sad. I am crying within seconds, I am at your door in minutes. “I just want to not be sad anymore.” You pull me into your bed and you hold me and the tears are still coming, but for the first time, I think that maybe it will actually be okay. Maybe I am not being crazy—or I still am, but maybe there is a solution after all.

I have a feeling it will get harder before it gets easier, and there are times when the scrap of hope you presented me with disappears. The sadness still engulfs me, and I know that, really, I am the only one who can save me. I am trying, which is more than before, I suppose. If anything, at least it is a start.

Oh Yes

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than
too late.

-Charles Bukowski

The One I Needed to Write

Just the other day, you came back from a run while I was sitting alone in your living room, having a minor major crisis about where you could possibly be, who you could possibly be with, if this summer might turn out to be like last year when you snuck someone in to replace me so fast it made my head spin and my heart ache.

You were breathing hard, sweaty and smelly, and then you were on me in that football-tackle hold, covering my body with your sweat and your smell. And as I hugged you back without flinching, I realized that there was no way that our friendship could get any more confusing.

I’ve been wanting to, needing to, struggling to write about this for at least a year now. Maybe two.

And you probably definitely already know this, since you seem to know everything else about me, anyway.

But as I try so hard to put it all into words, it only feels forced, fake, ridiculous. And obvious.

So I think I am going to keep this one to myself. For now, for once, it feels so much more right tucked away inside.

A reminder

“Don’t think about what you’ve left behind,” the alchemist said to the boy as they began to ride across the sands of the desert. “Everything is written in the Soul of the World, and there it will stay forever.”

“Men dream more about coming home than about leaving,” the boy said. He was already reaccustomed to the desert’s silence.

“If what one finds is made of pure matter, it will never spoil. And one can always come back. If what you had found was only a moment of light, like the explosion of a star, you would find nothing on your return.”

This is the right time. This is the right move. And one can always come back.