Yesterday I did just that.
I may seem trivial, and possibly even simplistic, but doing things that make me happy and even avoiding talking about “it” sometimes does the trick. But being that I now work from home and my staff is pretty much Princess Maya, talking about “it” doesn’t really happen. Mostly because there’s no one to talk to at home during working hours. I did call my hubby a couple of times during the day “I don’t know why. I mean, I do…but I m just so sad. Tell me something happy. Maybe even funny.” I joked with him.I knew that much: not talking about “it” helps me walk up from the hole before I go “there,” but sometimes I need to do just that. Talk about “it.”
“Does anyone else feel extreme nostalgia?” I asked in a couple of Bloggers Groups. “I feel sad. Very.” Some women, because mostly women are members of these groups, sympathized, some even related to my deep dark feelings of nothingness. While others made the time to reach out and help me figure out what was making me so “sad.”
I want to clarify that I’m feeling sadness. Extreme and emotional sadness. I am not depressed - yet. But it could happen and I want to stop myself before I get to that “place.”
“Maybe it’s your thyroid?” A friend asked.
Yes, maybe my thyroid compounds to these feelings. It’s happened before. A slight change of medication usually does the trick. But this time it’s more than that.
“What is wrong with the world?” I asked another friend. “Why is everything so twisted, so wrong?”
We talked about “it.” Life, I guess. The raw emotional baggage that drags throughout our lives. Even through our seemingly happy and privileged lives.
I glanced at my engagement ring, which has occupied a prominent place on my left hand for almost five years. I looked at the nooks, crannies, sparkles and middle diamond. I then looked at my freshly manicured fingers, my waxed arms, and stared at my “get-out-of-jail” watch. In one arm alone I had plenty of reasons to be happy. To be proud of my hard work and prouder of my thoughtful husband.
I sipped from my coffee mug. Imported. Italian. Nibbled on my breakfast bread. Freshly sliced. Organic. Artisan. Whatever.
I know I have every reason to be happy. To be proud. To be satisfied with my life.
But deep inside, I feel guilty. This guilt is wearing on me and making me sad. Sad all around over the injustices being served to people non deserving of them.
Actually, I take that back, human rights are that, human. No one deservers to be treated less than.
But I regress. Life, our country, the great nation that once was, is making me feel guilty for being able to afford that designer lipstick, artisan coffee, and rewards for any and all hard work I’ve committed myself to doing…and have done.
Guilty, because as I nibble on the latest chef-created morsel of sheer yumminess, someone else, someone just as deserving, is fighting for their rights as a human being.
Because I have had the opportunity to meet with doctors and therapists, that prescribe me medication that I can afford and given me the tools that I can use, to help me get out of this funk.
Because everyone else, no one else, should have to go through depression, injustices, and their needs not being met.
Because everyone deserves to be happy, in a good place, and in a bad place if they need it. When they need it.
Because we are all human...and we all deserve to be happy.