The word itself, is like a ragged blanket, one you wrinkle your nose at, as it lays unfolded at your feet. Taking my cue from those around me, I have kept that part of myself the most hidden. And, in order to build distance, I laugh and joke, as if depression has a sense of humor. Smiled in its face, hopeful that my dimples will force a grin on its somber face. It never has. These “funks” have plagued me since I was as young as three or four, unable to escape the shroud which enveloped me, night terrors invaded my sleep.
I didn’t have a name for it until much later. But never tired of all the different ways I could describe it.
- Drowning on land, the ocean my thoughts, and emotions the waves.
- A dark tunnel, like the ones that take you on a ride at Six Flags, but endless with no euphoria in sight.
- An exhaustion that comes from the fuse box of your soul. And sleep is all you can hope for.
- A sadness so heavy and thick, it wraps around you like burlap. You wrestle to loosen yourself, but the ache of melancholy grows tighter.
The evening news triggered my nightly decent into despair, my heart hung low, close to my stomach. Late at night, laid on my back with my hands folded between my heart and chest, my fingers pressed the space, and willed the pain to subside. I was ten, maybe eleven when I realized that the sadness on the screen crept around my throat and left me mute. Weeks later I gave up the news altogether. But, already contaminated, sadness had infected me, a zombie bite to my soul.
Sadness like any emotion is sticky, it clings to you, settles into that part of your brain that stores memories, and comes to keep you company. And for most of my life, sadness sat the emperor of all my emotions. The reason I love heart wrenching ballads, dramas that make you weep till your eyes are sore, and poems that make you wince. As a teen I video taped episodes of Life Goes On and 21 Jumpstreet and watched the super sad ones over and over. I cried over dreary scenes, soundtracks that matched what unraveled on the screen, and emotional dialogue, which all gave me permission to cry. The first time I watched Platoon I balled as the character of William DeFoe got shot as he ran from the Vietnam jungle and towards the helicopter. I saw the scene several times over, feeling connected to the pain on the screen, awakened. Numb free, if only for a brief moment. I knew this fascination with heart-break was odd, so I kept it a secret.
My last summer in Colombia with Francisco being alive, I was fifteen, and he was in his early twenties, the Spanish translation of Platoon came on canal RCN. It was late at night, Francisco sat in front of the television. His bare feet on the floor as he pushed himself back and forth on the rocker. Uncomfortable on the orange couch, but near Francisco and the television, I sat and read. A novel propped in my hands, lost to the world of the pages before me. I looked up when Francisco began to quote the character of Charlie Sheen. His eyes closed and fist balled in the air, no longer in Abuelo’s sala and on that rocker, Francisco dug into his own sadness. Francisco became Chris the hero in Platoon, as he rode high on the helicopter and looked down on the chaos that was Vietnam.
And when he finished his performance I clapped. “You are so good!”
“I’ve seen this movie so many times. It’s my favorite.” He smiled wide at me.
“Nah, your like me. You like sad movies.” Francisco rocked back and forth, his eyes straight ahead.
“I like sad songs too,” I said.
“The sadder the better,” Francisco now faced me.
Francisco stared at me for a long time before he spoke. “Because we have a lot of sad in us.”
I nodded. I didn’t realize until much later, that the attraction to sad things, was the shine of a flashlight against the silhoutte that was us.
“You and Joann are my sisters. But, you and me, we are the most alike.” Francisco eyes clung to me.
“Claro,” I agreed with him.
In many ways, Francisco was right. A lot of sad existed in him and exists in me. If I search in my past I can come up with a long ass bulleted list. But, I suspect there is more to it. A predisposition fortified by this sensitivity that has me feel things in only two frequencies: deeper and deepest.
Recently when I told a friend I felt sad. I was asked: Why? That I needed to think of the misforntune of others. I became quiet. Said nothing because the retorts were on the tip of my tongue. But, I no longer want others to understand me. I seek to accept myself. Of course I know why. I’m a writer, and articulation of feelings is what writers spend endless hours cobbling. The misforntunes of others? A keen awareness of other’s has always been my greatest burden, but it’s the reason many confide in me, and share details of their life with me. At forty, I realize these truths about myself cannot be hidden, es como tapar el sol con la mano.
Here it is: I’m mad sensitive, and I over think, and I live in my head way too much. I seek art, to be punctured by its beauty, because it moves me. I get into these funks, and always have, since I was a little girl. The waves don’t batter me like they use to, when the current pulled me under and left me breathless. I have learned to defy the waves, turn my back against them and ground my legs. Also, I have learned ride them, lay on top of them, float. When you see me quiet and lost in thought, know that I’m on my back riding the waves, my eyes on the sun. The sun, so merciful, it bows down everyday so that the darkness can be illuminated in its absence.