A Reluctant Member of the Sad Girls Club
I just deleted Instagram and Facebook after realizing I was addicted to my phone.
I picked up Untamed by Glennon Doyle, opened a chapter about her 13-year-old son losing his thirst for life after getting a phone, and I saw myself in this story. Except it wasn’t just in getting a phone; that detachment, that half-assed fulfillment comes in many forms: TV, social media, weed, alcohol, sex, etc.
It’s that desire for an escape, for temporary distraction and pleasure. And to be clear, there’s nothing wrong with that. But I lost the capacity to moderate myself. And so here I am: both the stern parent and the upset kid. At least I still have food. That one isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I’m so lonely. I’m so lonely I’m bored of my loneliness. I’m so lonely I feel like there’s nothing left to say about it other than acknowledging its existence.
As I type this, my two year old nephew is eating graham crackers next to me. This is what my loneliness does: it lies to me. It tells me I’m alone when I’m literally not. It makes me think my suffering is special, unfathomable by anyone else. It tells me nothing will make me feel better.
This melancholy has been with me since childhood. It convinces me of things that simply aren’t true. Or it weaves its way into my life and creates situations that perpetuate it.
And so I try to escape the pain of it. The pain of detachment from all that is beautiful and radiant. I lose sight of my own radiance.
In these states, I empathize with anyone who has chosen a substance or sex over living in the misery any longer. I admire people who have experienced much deeper tragedies than I and found a way through them without these crutches.
I hate living here, in this state of grey sadness. It feels inescapable. It feels like it’ll never end. It feels like it might kill me.
And all I can think about is how to make it end. I wonder what the purpose of these feelings are. I question what can be gained from such a state.
My brain gets frantic, panicky, and starts looking for ways to not feel this way. I open Instagram for the hundredth time. I fantasize about romance, of someone coming into my life and “saving” me. I read a few sentences in a book and then put it down. I think about smoking weed. All the time. I think about having a drink. I think about leaving, going anywhere. I dream of sleeping for two weeks.
I wish I had some uplifting takeaway from all of this. I wish I could say, “And then I had this grand epiphany that made this suffering all worth it.” I wish I could say suffering always has purpose with confidence. I wish that feeling in my heart wasn’t so heavy that I felt like I might stop breathing. I wish I knew when it was going to end. I wish I was better at reaching out to people. I wish I thought less about myself. I wish I didn’t feel like I was drowning in myself. I wish I had anywhere to go. I wish I had the answers. Or an answer. I wish I could tell myself it won’t always be this way.
But all I have are these words. This is as close to solace as I can get right now.
And I have hope. Hope that something good will come of all this. That in 20 years I’ll meet a young woman with a similar story, and I’ll be able to tell her of my overcoming that looming shadow that felt so heavy, that with the right balance of meditation, a positive attitude, and exercise, I annihilated it. I’ll tell her that radiance is on the other side of this mess, and it’s all worth it.
And if that day never comes, I’ll be here, crying these beautiful tears, ready to hold her and tell her that no matter what happens, it’ll be okay.
Cause there’s really no other option than to persevere, looking forward, walking in appreciation of life. Cause even in these pits of existence, there’s still two year olds eating graham crackers, trees swaying in the wind, and dark chocolate.
