I go back and forth regarding how my brain relates to the world. I am never sure how to refer to its relationship to the surroundings. I have tried on "mental illness", but that feels inaccurate, stigmatizing, and not wide enough. I have played with "empath", but that has too much of a cringe factor by association with those who actually refer to themselves as such. I have flirted with "gifted", but is it a gift, really? (And again, cringe.) Besides, gifts aren't supposed to turn on you, last I checked.
And yet at times, I can actually describe my relationship to the world in all of these ways, and more. I think this is because there is not just one way to talk about it (it's not one thing or another), and we struggle to define things that are not one thing or another, don't we?
What the fuck am I going on about, you might be asking yourself?
What I am going on about is the acknowledgement that I am a sad person. I hate writing that because it feels so pathetic, but I intend it to only be descriptive, and not a plea for sympathy. My sadness is something I have written around many times, but rarely about. In this attempt, let me clarify that I am not trying to not be sad, because I don't think that is possible without losing everything else; rather I hope to improve how I live with it, while inviting some understanding from readers. Currently, regarding how I live with it, well, I don't always do so well.
***
One night a few weeks ago, I went with my husband and a dear friend to see a ridiculous, totally forgettable, yet thoroughly entertaining film at a popular mall. Things went off the rails for me early on, but I want to highlight just one incident to illustrate how sadness grips me at times. At home, I pre-ordered a large popcorn and medium drink so that we would not have to wait in line at the concession stand at the theater. I was relieved to see my order ready when I arrived, bypassing those who were standing in line to order, and feeling a bit proud of myself in the process.
While my friend went to sit down, I waited for my husband to come out of the restroom. I stood over near the butter and napkin dispenser, holding onto a thin cardboard box that, with surprising efficiency, held my large bucket of popcorn, as well as an empty medium drink cup, with straw, waiting for our selection. The drink was for my husband, and I needed him to make his choice at the beverage dispenser. But he was taking longer in the restroom than I had anticipated, and I suddenly felt very aware of standing alone, with my thin but efficient cardboard holder box, popcorn bucket, and empty drink cup, among dozens of other theatergoers not at all aware of me.
Here is what my brain did with this moment.
I started thinking of all that was wrong right then: my impatience while waiting for my husband; upset that he had more "business" to do than anticipated; my feeling invisible among the dozens of other moviegoers; a sense that this simple enjoyable activity was an example of just "plugging in" to the summer's entertainment as a way to feel good for a couple of hours; and my judgement of all that--including the guilt I felt for feeling any of this instead of just fucking relaxing like a normal person would. I can barely write this because it sounds so ludicrous.
The sadness is what shows up in the aftermath.
When it arrives, as commentary on the ridiculousness of my thoughts, it pulls me down, and I don't feel like I have a choice. It takes me to where the "bad people" should live, you know, those who are impatient, invisible to others, unable to relax, unwilling to enjoy a simple evening without finding something wrong. The sadness reminds me that it is foolish to think that I will ever feel normal, that I will ever fit in, that I will ever be truly loved and accepted, not because of the faults of others, but because I will fuck it up. There is something wrong with me.
There is some history to that thought.
***
When I was much younger, I remember being incredibly self-conscious about how my breath smelled. This was not paranoia--I was often told that my breath smelled bad. But it was the way I was told that upset me--I remember more than one occasion where someone would get close to me and literally recoil, saying a version of these exact words: "Oh my God, your breath smells like there is something rotting inside of you."
I would think to myself, "Yep, that's about right". (Big sigh.)
So here we go...
For years, I felt I was living on borrowed time, sure that death was waiting for me around the corner. In the 80's I thought I would get HIV and die of AIDS (I didn't and I didn't), and recently was certain that the brown spots on my arms were the skin cancer that would kill me (they weren't and they didn't). I have long felt that I will only be able to relax when I find out what it is that's rotting inside me and know for sure that I am dying and no longer have to wonder when death will come. This experience, as you can imagine, gets in the way of fully leaning into joy for fear that I will be forced to leave the party without being ready to do so.
This is not depression, and it is more than just anxiety; it is the feeling that I am not supposed to be here, like a character in a movie about the multiverse where my presence in this world has the potential to disrupt everything. It is the feeling that I should not be alive, and that my aliveness barely covers up the death inside of me. It is the feeling that I ruin things, that I am "toxic", that I should not be loved because I will just cause those who love me pain. It is the feeling that my eventual death will be a relief to the planet, that the "air" will once again be clear, that the anomaly of my existence will have been corrected. I was never supposed to be here, I am a mistake, and my existence fucks things up.
I do not feel this way all the time.
***
I recently watched a wonderful movie called "Wicked Little Letters", which told the true story of a woman in the 1920's in West Sussex, England. She was found to have been writing nasty, obscene letters to a number of townsfolk over the course of a few years, and yet another woman was sent to jail for the crime. It's a fantastic movie and I recommend you watch it, but the reason I am bringing it up is because it is about a woman who lives in a repressive society that limits her ability to express herself or live an individual life. The obscenities "leak" out of her onto the page, a symptom of rage and grief that has no outlet.
I feel that sadness "leaks" out of me at times, not necessarily because I repress it, but because I live in a world that is so full of sadness that if I allow myself to feel mine I simply could not function! You know what I am talking about: people passed out on the street from drugs or alcohol who I just "step over"; trash piled high on the sidewalks; impatient drivers honking aggressively; being cut off by a car while crossing the street as though my life were less important than their need to rush; walking past people who have multiple barriers to simple connection; store clerks who never even once look at me or greet me at the register. And these are just local sources of sadness.
I could go on, but it would just sound like I am whining, and let's be clear, I am not doing that. I am commenting on what I observe in my life that is not right. How do I know that it is not right? Because I have learned to feel nothing when I see these things. That is, until the sadness eventually leaks out.
***
Online, it is said that sadness's role is to "register, communicate, and help release the pain of loss, or to grieve". But we can't do that 24/7 and function well, can we? What if one is "registering and communicating" pain all day?
We often find "pockets" of time in which to feel these things. Have you ever been to a funeral and wondered if it is okay to cry? Have you ever noticed how people look at that one person who cannot stop crying? Nobody wants to be looked at that way! At least I don't. I set aside my sadness until I can feel it without upsetting anyone or attracting any notice. This does not always work (which means that I am still human). Good news, in a way. Nice to have good news.
The task for me is to also notice, when I am observing the pain around me, examples of joy, beauty, and grace. They are plain to see but not as loud as sadness, yet they are definitely there: drivers who are not honking, the car that waits for me to cross, the passersby who meet my eye and return my greetings, the cashier who asks about my day with genuine curiosity. Sadness will never disappear entirely, but as they say, "You see what you are looking at." I was once told that if you are driving a motorcycle, it is suggested that you look in the direction you are going, otherwise you will likely end up someplace you had no intention of going (or crash).
If my destination is love, how then might I "look at" sad things? How can I walk through the world and be sure that I don't crash, even when something painful catches my eye?
***
One of the reasons I hesitated to write about my sadness is because I live a very good life. My experience of pain is mostly internal, whereas there are millions in the world experiencing external sources of pain right now. But my exploration is not a way to "compare" my pain or elevate it above others', it is instead a way to increase the compassion I have for those who are suffering far worse than I.
The Dalai Lama has said:
“World peace must develop from inner peace. Peace is not just mere absence of violence. Peace is, I think, the manifestation of human compassion.”
He could be talking about both inner peace and outer peace, but it is important to note that a state of peace does not actually rely on things being peaceful. True peace comes from acceptance, followed by the application of compassion in action. True peace is not the absence of pain, but the acceptance of it, leading to the absence of suffering (negative thoughts about what is happening). True peace is possible when we allow our pain to be witnessed by those who care for us. The engine that gets us there is compassion towards self and others.
Compassion is what holds and contains my sadness leaks. When I am sad, compassion for myself pushes me from isolation to connection, where compassion from others lessens my suffering. This is my road to peace, whether it is with myself, my husband, or with my clients in the therapy room.
Compassion is what allows me to read about the suffering of others and not feel hopeless or callous. It informs how I think about, and take action towards, both suffering and those who cause suffering. Without compassion, "sad" me becomes "angry" me: a shutdown person intent on hurting others. Compassion finds the pain underneath the anger, allowing it to be expressed as sadness and grief, leading to action, healing, and even transformation. It does not have to look dramatic, it often just looks like tears.
***
I will never be immune to sadness, nor would I want to be, and I am grateful for that. Sadness is a friend of sorts--I have known it all my life and there is a familiar comfort to it. But I am hoping that when sadness appears, my response shifts from resignation and shame to acceptance and grace. I think by embracing the latter I can live better, and those around me could live better with me. As they say, the world doesn't change, but individuals do.
Individual change, for me, is a full-time pursuit. My sadness won't leak if I never let it rise to the brim.
