A Very Personal Kind of Sadness

Sometimes an ineffable sadness creeps down into my heart, starting from my head and tingling its way down. Sulking, creeping, sliming its way down into the pit of my stomach where my lungs part ways to make a space for other organs.

When that happens all I can do is turn on Lana Del Rey and wail along and it doesn’t matter if it’s dark or light or grey outside, I just wail and howl until I’m hoarse.

On days like these all I feel is cold and surrounded by a dense humming fog, when all I want to do is be empty and warm.

I come home and the house is empty and sun-soaked, my partner occupied. Am I resentful or grateful that I have a chance to mope, slump, crawl into bed and be still?

Everything hurts and I know I should be pleased the sun has finally come out, but all I feel is anxious, alone. I took a personality quiz earlier and one of the statements you were to list yes, no, or somewhat to was, “When I feel down, I throw myself into other activities; I don’t have time to be depressed.”

In a mood like this, I am trapped on a rock in a storm, surrounded by churning ocean. I am alone on earth after the rapture, with the sound of crickets and cicadas in my ears. I am noticing every dust speck and resenting it. I am hopeless that I will ever read all of the books I own.

I want to walk down to the beach, but know I must make dinner or no one else will. If I want help, I must help myself.

On days like these, I would go to a karaoke bar and sing it out. My voice is already hoarse and sore from car-wailing and the cigarettes I smoked in a different mood last night. I am weary.