melancholy

There is an epidemic of suicide, especially in men my age. I can understand why. I’m tired. I have lived a long time. So long that I think I have seen and experienced most everyday things many times. I’ve even been through less common things like marriage, divorce, the births of three children, and the deaths of parents, friends, and family.

Traveling to almost any city in the US results in seeing the same collection of chain restaurants and stores, the same obnoxious drivers, the same devotion to college football and sports teams in general. None of it satisfies me. Downtown, suburbs, farms and rural living. It is the same thing over and over again.

It’s true, every day is a new day, and I make the best of each one as it comes.  But I’ve seen over 22,000 days already and sometimes it feels like forever.

At my age, I am only expected to decline. Some day soon you will see a picture of me, eating ice cream with most of it spilled on my shirt and underneath the picture will be Facebook descriptions of how cute and adorable I am, much like a baby or a kitten…or a dead man.

What I might accomplish in my life is more or less already determined too, although there are a lot of late bloomers who do incredible things later in life (and I still have hopes). One of the biggest obstacles for me all of my life has been not believing in myself, not believing I could accomplish something that is a stretch. Also, importantly, I don’t like attention, and any little taste of success at work or elsewhere usually ends up with more attention, which drives me into hiding.

Sadness, depression, melancholy are all good words for the feelings that come over me. I like the word melancholy because it really sounds the way the sadness overwhelms and consumes my happiness. Very few people like to talk with me about these things. Not just because the feelings are illogical and hard to pin down with words, but because people don’t want to hear it, don’t want to understand it, don’t want to be around it. I can understand that, but it needs to change.

At this moment, the song ‘Waves‘ by Normani and 6lack sort of captures the way feelings of sadness come over me in waves.  Sometimes big waves, sometimes small, but always coming, over and over again. I barely have time before the next one hits. Rationality slips in for a moment. But then the next wave comes. It never ends. Or at least not yet.

I sometimes think about famous people who lived not much more than my current age, like Hunter S. Thompson at 67, Anthony Bourdain at 62 and Robin Williams at 63.  There are so many more examples. Probably most importantly, my mother, at 64. It is not out of line for me to wonder when my day will arrive. I am trying to make the most of the time remaining. But it is so hard sometimes, to convey the sense of urgency.

I like the perspective of Hunter S. Thompson:

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming Wow! What a Ride!”

I have heard many times that I think too much. Always around sad things, not concerning math or science or something analytical. Just when I am overwhelmed and not able to deal with something. It could be that life threw it at me or that I walked into it knowing very well the end would be bad. I make bad decisions just as easily and as often as I make good ones.

One thing seems very clear to me. If I had a broken leg, lets say the kind with the bone poking out through the skin, I would go to the hospital emergency room. I would not think oh, “I can handle this myself”. I would not drive myself. I would ask friends or neighbors or anyone around for help, or I would call 911. And almost anyone I asked would know how to help and they would help. But when I am hurt emotionally, I don’t do that, I turn inward and think and I blame myself for all of it. I magnify it and make it worse. I prolong it. I wallow in it. And almost no one wants to help or knows how to help.

When I do try to talk to people around me, especially if I am in it very deep, people seem afraid of me, afraid to talk to me, afraid to hear me. I’ve heard “maybe you should talk to a professional” more than once. But I also know I am not thinking clearly at that moment and so maybe it is all in my head, and no one is afraid of me, maybe they don’t even notice me. Crazy, right?

I already see a professional. I take medicine. I talk to friends and family. The feelings come anyway. Maybe it is ok to feel this way. Maybe when you take away the craziness you take away the heart and soul of life. Maybe tears and worry and heartache are important parts of being human. Maybe a hug is needed. Maybe compassion and empathy and understanding come from these crazy places. Maybe this is where we find art and beauty and creativity and passion. Maybe we need to do more to help others and do it better and do it with love not with judgement.

Yes, I could build walls to protect myself, not put my heart into things, not care. I see so many people safe behind their walls. But I don’t want to live behind constructs that make me feel safe and immune to the world around me. I want to let the world in, I want to feel the pain and passion of art and culture and music – of life!

I probably just need a hug. I miss my mother. I miss my friend Durgesh. I need to remember they are still with me, still a part of me.

No, this is not a call for help. We need to be able to talk about these feelings with friends, family, coworkers, lovers, strangers. It can’t always be turned over to someone else to handle, we all need to be able to talk to friends and family and even strangers with respect and support and love.

David