Sorrow has a way of creeping in and breaking you down when you least expect it. It hits you like the thrashing of a whale’s tail; you wouldn’t know how it feels till you’ve experienced it and I hope you stay in the dark forever. But…if you have then you’ll know what I mean.
It hovers in the background for the longest time while you prance about unaware, and then, it devours your mirth in one strong right hooked blow to leave you breathless and wondering why what happened just happened. Then, there’s no way of escaping it. There’s no way of running away from it; it doesn’t matter if you’re a triathlon runner or a sprinter- you will not be able to escape a winner from this race unless you embrace the sorrow.
It breaks you down and swallows you from the inside. Bit by bit you become aware of how you are shaped and each crevice of your body makes you aware of its existence. Everything aches, most of all the full sized aortic pump in your chest that beats and fights to keep you alive. It pains so much that the only thing that can make you not feel its presence is if you curl up into a ball and lay like a foetus for hours.
The tears that liberated you when you were melancholic and young can no longer redeem you. They cease to be helpful so, after a while, you stop crying and stare at the ceiling of your room with the vacant stare in your eyes that your reflection is so familiar with. You stare till your eyes burn, and then finally, you close them only to see a moving picturescope of everything that makes you feel that way. It’s the blockbuster called Your Life and Imagination. All the things that have happened and everything you wished you would’ve done to stop it from happening play in a loop while you debate whether it was better when your eyes were stinging.
Sadness is like the blanket that isn’t big enough to cover your feet and face at the same time. It’s not comfortable and it isn’t comforting. It leaves a part of you exposed and vulnerable. It leaves you cold. It leaves you scared. It leaves you wanting warmth and just a little bit more of it so that it engulfs you completely or a little bit lesser so that you can put it underneath you while staring at the stars instead of the stupid ceiling.
It is a busy world full of people who either cannot or don’t want to read your mind. You know it isn’t their fault so you don’t bother anyone. You don’t knock on their doors to cry. You don’t give them a phone call lest they’re doing something that’s more important than you and let’s face it, is this really that important? So you wallow alone and battle it out as much as you can. You surrender to it. You raise the white flag and sleep. Sleep is the solace and the only escape from it, except when you start having nightmares. That is when shit gets real. Mother? Would you run to the one person who isn’t too busy for you, ever and show her your dark side. Boyfriend? Won’t he be scared by what the shark called sorrow has done to you- gut wrenching, soul crushing horror that you’ve turned into for that one night? BFF? Doesn’t she already deal with enough of you already? Piling on your issues isn’t the solution, you’ll feel.
No body is there. Sorrow has no friend. Sadness likes loneliness and they go on dates and their make out session comprises of picking at your soul. You’re the menu, obviously.
So for one night you allow yourself to be put in a platter, garnished and served to be chewed on and spat out. For one night, you break down completely. You allow yourself to think of the things that you repress; like how the relationship isn’t what you hoped it would be, like how you want to say you love someone without feeling scared of them fleeing, like how wish he’d just be there more often, like how you wished you family was more family and less arguments, like how you don’t like the way work is, like how you wished you could stay at home and just lay on the familiarity called your bed and look out of the window for hours without being questioned. You wonder about all the possibilities that you’ve missed and why. You looked at everything in your life through a dark, blue tinted glass. You wish the people who are busy would call you without you having to tell them. You wish they’d think of you and let you know they are thinking of you. You allow yourself the luxury of skipping work the next day.
And slowly, the night fades into daybreak and you do end up skipping work. Clean the house, dust the room, sweep the floors, arrange your books on the shelf and stack your life back part by part. You take your wounds and lick them to soothe yourself and sing a song that reminds you of the days that weren’t as bad. You pat yourself on the back for not drinking the previous night and thank yourself for the good decision of sparing yourself a hangover.
The next evening rolls in and it’s already slightly different than the previous one. Your boyfriend calls you. Your best friend texts you. Even if it is because you’ve deleted your existence from social media and that’s how they noticed, but at least they cared.
You take small steps back to normalcy and come out of it a fighter. And, although you can still feel sorrow lurking around, the blanket feels bigger already because you’ve never really liked sleeping stretched out.