Embracing the Sadness
I often wonder what it would be like to not be moody.
I’ve tried to remember what life was like before my Manic Depressive Illness kicked in. I remember times, or at least I think I remember times, when I felt joy. For instance when my daughter was born. I remember the sheer terror of her breech birth and the flush of happiness when she was actually born, whole and sound, with a very bruised bottom.
But, today, some 28 years after my mood disorder was triggered I wonder what it would be like to be normal. To not experience the ebb and flow of moods. In particular, to not experience the painful embrace of depression. To not shuffle through the morning feeling gray and dull. To not have a part of me that wants to drown itself in the searing pain of sadness.
I have a friend who claims to have never been depressed. And, I believe that to be so. She seems possessed of an eternal perkiness, as if equipped with some special force field that repels badness, sadness, and meaness.
I wonder what it would be like to be her. To not be downed by the challenges of life. To not be sadened by the shitty, evil things we humans do to each other. To not feel dispair at the cruelness we perpetrate on each other.
I know she cares about others. It is clear from what she says and does. Yet somehow that caring never seems to drag her down; as it does me.
Part of me seems to live off the side somehow, an interested observer. “He” listens to the melancholy stories of my sad self and seems bemused; if not downright disgusted by the seemingly constant whining and complaining.
And, yet that sad part of me seems to take control on these cloudy days. She, for it seems that part is a she, feels such exquiste pain. Such deep acrid sadness that permeats every cell and molecule of my being.
The observer raises a bemused eyebrow and thinks, “Fuck. Here we go again! How long must I put up with this shit?”
And, yet somehow this sad pain seems so much a part of who I am, of who I have become.
The observer wonders, why do poets, songwriters, and artists wallow so much in pain?
And, yet somehow I welcome the sadness and pain. Not so much that it proves that I can feel. Nor so much that it proves that I am alive. Yet it is a welcome friend.
I want to drown in melancholy. I want the sadness to permeate every crevice and crack of my being. I want to take a razor and cut open my skin, slice my veins and bleed out the dark crimson sadness.
What will that accomplish? I don’t know. All I know is that somehow if I absorb all my sadness; somehow if I suck it deeply, wholely into my being; somehow if it become all of me, it will transform me.
Into what I know not.
Copyright 2010 Lyle T. Lachmuth All Rights Reserved
