Born and Bred in Loneliness

Maybe I am having another melancholy episode. In moments like this, I often wonder when I am not. Perhaps these feelings are just my norm, and feeling nice-enough is my euphoria. Or not. But I digress— My logical side knows these thoughts aren’t helpful, nor trustworthy. Then again, my logical side is often quiet during these periods, too.

In moments like these I wish I could reach out and be comforted. But I also wish I could never be reached again. And so, as I do, I turn to writing. And today, particularly, I find a pattern in that pool of deprecation. The normal noise is there— incompetent, incapable, desperate— but right above the water I can see something a bit clearer, as if I’m reading tea leaves in a tiny porcelain cup and trying to decipher what those abstract feelings mean.

There’s a quote by Hank Green that goes “I had a very happy childhood; I just wasn't a very happy child.” I think about that very often. I wonder if my childhood would’ve been considered a happy one. I know I’ve got happy memories sprinkled in there, but they always feel like they’ve happened to somebody else. One vaguely remembers seeing a cute puppy, but one never forgets the fear of a very bad spider bite. Does that make sense?

I feel like there’s a certain type of person who is always painted in blue undertones. I’m not talking about depression, just normal-functioning people who just so happen to always be tinted and tainted with a bit of not-quite-sadness. Perhaps it takes one to know one. Or maybe I’m projecting. I’m not trying to play the tortured-artist trope, I wouldn’t say I’m either of those things. But I just wonder if I’ve had any happiness that was also guilt-free. Any happiness that did not come at a price. And I wonder if that price is truly self-imposed.

A big source of happiness in my life are my friends. Cliché, isn’t it? But sometimes the truth is simple, and even though I truly do enjoy my solitude, whenever I’m with them I find myself thinking life is truly about other people. I’m not even sure I know what I mean. But spending time with them makes me feel good, makes me feel fulfilled. And then, for some reason, every single time, I am immediately overcome with this mood that I can’t quite describe. Feels cheap to call it sadness, that’s not it, it’s a sort of deep longing for something I already have, a regret for something I don’t regret. I wish I could make someone understand it, and then maybe try to understand it myself. Because I know people experience something that is at least similar, I know feelings akin to this hide in plain sight, harboring in our lives for no reason. Can anyone really claim never to have felt lonely even in a crowd of people? Not listened to even when you’re being heard? Karma isn’t karma if it’s unfair, right? So what did I do to always feel like that?

And it’s not as though I feel undeserving of said friendships or bonds or feelings, some part of me knows my worth. But it’s like I’ve made this deal with melancholy, and it has me. So whenever I feel fine, I must pay it back. And I always do.

And I think that is why I like my neutrality, my uneventfulness. This deal doesn’t go both ways, I don’t get to feel high after feeling low, and I was always a person to play it safe. And so, when I am overwhelmed with melancholy, I wonder if I felt happy and didn’t know. What a sorry thing to think. That maybe I’m just destined to know what happiness isn’t.

Because I am well aware that melancholy isn’t sentient, that I haven’t made any sort of deal with a depressing deity. I know I am just a regular person. But the kind who just so happens to always be tinted and tainted with a bit of not-quite-sadness.