Tag Archives: sad

Exist.

“On a scale from one to ten, how bad is it?”

I’ve been watching a lot of Grey’s Anatomy lately. In the show, emergency cases often come into the hospital and the doctors have to figure out how to save the person. Sometimes, those emergencies involved a foreign object going through a person. One time it was a pole someone had been impaled on. Another time it was a big tree branch. These cases are difficult because you can’t just pull the foreign object out, unless you want the patient to bleed to death. Usually, the pole or tree or whatever is holding all of the blood and organs in place, so if you just rip it back out of them, they’ll bleed out.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like watching tv is the foreign object that’s keeping me from bleeding out.

When I’m watching a tv show, I’m distracted. I’m wrapped up in someone else’s life. Lately, when I turn off the tv, sadness overwhelms me. It’s like the silence that follows is too quiet. My mind no longer has something to focus on. And I get really sad. I bleed out. I’d rather just keep watching tv. Unfortunately, I have responsibilities and people to hide my feelings from, so I can’t just stay curled up on the couch all day watching Grey’s Anatomy.

On one of the latest episodes I’ve watched, one of the main characters hasn’t been doing extremely well, and for some very good reasons. Her boyfriend comes and sees she’s having a hard time and simply asks, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”

On a scale from one to ten, it’s about a seven right now. Maybe a six. Which is better than yesterday. Worse than the day before. Much better from the day before that.

I’m just existing right now. I don’t think I ever thought I’d be a person who just existed. I just won’t pull the tree out. It’ll keep the bleeding under control.

-Melissa

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Helpless.

“How dare you.

There was a tragedy placed before me and those were the three words that rang through my mind. They were at the very forefront, refusing to be ignored.

“How dare you.”

I filled in the silence that followed:

“How dare you be so selfish. How dare you be so wrapped up in your own damn mind that, even as this story is being shared with you, you can’t push away your pain. How dare you be holding back tears because of your ‘pain’ when there are so many people in this world who are going through SO MUCH WORSE things than you. You are being selfish. You need to get outside yourself. You need to be there for the people around you. You are so consumed with the fact that no one has reached out to you that you’ve stopped reaching out to others. You’ve isolated yourself. You can barely handle other people’s pain because you can’t handle your own. How dare you. You are supposed to be able to carry other people burdens. Why can’t you put yours aside for a moment? Why can’t you get out of your own head? You should be taking care of people- loving people. Isn’t that what you do? You haven’t been doing that lately. You don’t even care about the people around you. You’re being selfish, only caring about yourself. How dare you. This is not how you are supposed to act. You need to snap out of this. It’s ridiculous. You need to get up. You need to do something. All you want is for someone to see you and, yet, you keep to yourself. You want people to ask how you are and then lie when they do. How dare you. How dare you get so wrapped up in your own problems like this. You are supposed to be better than this. What you are dealing with is nothing- NOTHING- compared to other peoples pain. How dare you. How dare you. How dare you.

I had no words to fight back and other peoples pain layered itself on my own and tears came to my eyes and weight came to my arms and my hands shook and my breath fought against me and I tried to think of ways I could help and my mind swirled and I wondered if there was anything that could be done and sadness hit me again and again and again until I fell. Helpless.

-Melissa

Professor.

The sky is turning black and the page is blank.

My eyes locked on the darkening window as soft voices drifted in from the open door.

Can you accept something and still be sad?

Ah, yes. Wow, that just connected to far too many parts of my life.

You see, professor, I can’t finish my paper. I can barely lift my hands, let alone a pencil. You see, professor, my head leans against the back of the couch and it’s hard to lift it again. You see, professor, I’m finding it hard to concentrate.

No, professor, I am not tired. Yes, I’ve been getting enough sleep. Yes, I’ve been paying attention (when I can) in class. Yes, you will get your paper on time. No, professor, it will not be my best work. And you see, professor, I can’t care.

You see, professor, this classroom becomes too small. I feel suffocated by the lack of…I don’t know– life? in this classroom. You see, professor, my classmates keep talking about how challenge needs to be paired with support. But you see, professor, they’ve forgotten to pair support with challenge. Professor, their challenges weigh down on me and I fight to not grow bitter against them. Because, you see, professor, they don’t see into my life. They don’t see my loneliness or these days (and days) when I’m unbearably sad. You see, professor, I’m not really close to them. They forget about me. They don’t ask me how I am. And you see, professor, that makes the loneliness so much stronger.

But professor, you don’t see.

And I’ve accepted that this is the way it is for a while. For a while, I will struggle to breathe. I will passively drown. But I wonder if I’ll ever swim again.

I used to be so good at swimming.

Don’t worry, professor. I’ll finish your paper. I’ll make something up. You’ll get it in time.

-Melissa

Communication.

It’s not the same.

Goodness. I knew it wouldn’t be.

There’s a difference between seeing someone daily and then not seeing them at all. There’s a difference from being face to face and then only communicating through a phone or computer screen. You’d think it’d be okay. They say that, with all the technology we have, it’s easy to keep in touch with people. But that’s just not true. There are time differences and busy schedules and computer glitches. And it’s not the same.

And I miss you.

And it’s also different because you and I aren’t really dealing with the same parts of life any more. You have someone to be with. And I don’t. And that makes a difference. Usually I have no problem with that and you love him and I do too. But there’s a difference between talking just to you, and talking to you with him in the next room. I’m fine with it and I’m really happy for you, but… It’s just different. It’s not bad. Or good. Just different.

And I’ve never been good at change.

I know people grow up and move their separate ways. I know that’s just a part of life. I know it won’t be the last time it happens. I know. That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard though, you know?

I just miss you. It’s hard living life with someone and then just… not doing that.

I’m fine with it. It’s just kind of… sad.

-Melissa

Excuses.

I was trying to think of how to explain why I was 24 minutes late in turning in my paper. The prof I was trying to turn it in to is one of the most gracious people I know so he probably would have accepted any excuse. But I literally couldn’t write one.

Not that I didn’t have one.

But her words were in my head. Her words. “Results, not excuses.” Pounded into my brain a dozen times, directed at me when I wasn’t the only student in the room. When she called me out by name to say those words.

As if I did something wrong. As if I did something bad. Her unwillingness to hear me explain. Her unwillingness to believe that there could be anything valid for me not doing something perfectly. For me not understanding something.

As if I needed more guilt.

And tears filled my eyes and all I could think was: Shit. She got in my head.

So I said I was sorry for turning in the paper 24 minutes late. I said I would explain, but I’d been taught not to. And then I gave him the paper.

I have no idea why this hurts.

-Melissa

Bitter.

I’m in the middle of writing a five page paper that I really don’t want to  write. And not just because I don’t want to write it and homework is stupid and all of that. I don’t want to write it because it’s been causing tears to swell in my eyes for the past two hours.

Maybe that sounds ridiculous. It probably is. But I’m having to write about an experience I’ve had for the past semester. It’s not that it’s bad. Not really.

It just makes me sad. I’m so disappointed. And I’m frustrated. I’m just so frustrated. Because this paper wants me to write about what I’ve learned and I’m sitting here typing up all of the things I’ve learned that aren’t important to me. That aren’t hard. That don’t make a bit of difference. That I could have learned on my own without this experience.

And maybe it’s good for me. Maybe it’s good to have my patience tested like this. Maybe it’s good to do work that is so boring I feel like my brain will fall out. Maybe it’s good. It will strengthen my endurance. It will give me more experience to know where other people are coming from. It will open my eyes to all the behind the scenes work that no one ever sees.

But maybe… maybe it will make me bitter. Maybe it will make me hate where I am and cause me to hate what I’m learning. Maybe it will keep me from learning things that would be of so much more value to me. Things that I would find relevant to life and to the work I hope to accomplish someday. And that’s what really scares me.

So what have I learned from this experience? Nothing I couldn’t have learned, and would have learned elsewhere. What did I gain? A longing for what I don’t have, yet a forced self-imposed, forced acceptance for what I do. What are the positives of my experience? I’m made to exercise patience I don’t have.  The negatives? This isn’t what I want. And I’m so bored. And I’m missing out consistently on all of the opportunities my peers are given.

Also, clearly I can answer his questions in a paragraph. I have no idea why he’s requiring a five page length.

-Melissa

Furniture.

People keep moving furniture.

It’s making me crazy.

If I would have written this post this morning, it would have been more contemplative and sad. Right now, I’m just annoyed.

The contemplative part of me is too sentimental. In the first place, rearranging furniture pulls something inside of me, as if corners of my heart were attached to it. And bringing in new furniture and rearranging everything else to make it fit… it’s odd. And I’ve never been good at change. I used to fight it. Now… Now I just sort of accept it with some sort of disbelief, knowing that all I can do is watch it get dragged across the room, unable to stop it’s movement. Knowing it’s not my place any longer to have a say. There’s even guilt when I like the new furniture, as if it takes away love or loyalty that I had to the older furniture. I know it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But I do like the new stuff and it was needed and the whole room is better for it. But it’s different. And now I couldn’t walk through the room blindfolded without stubbing my toes.

If only the first place was really about furniture.

The annoyed part of me?

In the second place, no one asked if they could move the furniture! No one even told me it was happening. And they don’t even take care of the house. It’s a pigs sty. The more I think about it, the more I get pissed off. They aren’t the only ones who live here. I have to wade through their filth daily and I’m so freaking sick of it. It’s so pathetic. Honest to goodness, I don’t understand how people could live like this and not give a crap about how their home is. Worse yet, not give a crap for the other people living with them. It’s disrespectful and rude. And I don’t know what to do about that. I don’t know how to fix it. But I’m honestly so mad. This is one of those times I REALLY wish I didn’t have a filter so I could tell them off. Maybe I should get drunk. That could help. But I’ve never been drunk so maybe I would just get quiet and sulky. I don’t know how that would be any different than now so I guess it couldn’t hurt to try it.

That part is really about furniture. I can handle messy roommates, but I can’t handle filthy roommates. And they moved the freaking furniture while I wasn’t home and I’m trying to deal with coping the movement of the metaphorical furniture so, honestly, not a good day to change things. Freaking imbeciles. I just want to punch their parents in the face for spoiling them rotten and never teaching them what the word “clean” means. Then I want to punch them in the face for not learning how to take care of themselves because they are old enough to know better by now.

I need to live by myself. I don’t know whether to scream at them or get so painfully passive aggressive that they begin to hate me. Either would be good at this point.

If everyone could just stop moving things, that’d be great.

-Melissa