I realize that my writing these days may come across as bleak, a downer, brooding. It may even bring to mind a descriptor I truly dislike, “pity party”.
I am finally at a place in my life where I can say, maybe it is, so fucking what.
I am going through a cavernous depression. I use the word cavernous because it closely describes the feeling for me. Hollowed out, cold, lonely, pulled away, withdrawing.
It is not that I am devoid of happiness, or contentment, or gratitude, but right now other things are prevalent, needing my attention.
Sadness, grief, uncertainty, loss, transition. These bring me to the cavern, the dug out place, a temple of heartache.
This temple is not unholy, quite the opposite. It offers great and sacred riches. But we can’t unearth them when no one will come help tend the fire. It is too painful to stay the vigil alone.
I am not suggesting we languish there.
I am suggesting we do not defile or defame these states of being and run away never looking back, or even looking at all.
Take the time to look. To be curious. To be there. To know that place. Light a fire, gather your people and tell the stories that live there. Write your name on her wall. Give her some respect.
It isn’t that I don’t want to talk about happiness. It is that I do not want to make happiness into cheap fodder, the bland currency of life, the common, basic, drivel.
Happiness, and not just happiness, but joy, ecstacy, jubilation, along with sorrow, grief, despair, all the depth and nuance of human experience, deserves better than that.