I am someone who loves sunny and bright days. No, I don't just like them. I require them. My state of mind dictates that I need to see the sun and feel warmth for me to be my normal cheerful self. I was severely disappointed when I noticed that it was all gloomy gray skies this morning because I know that means I'm going to struggle with my mood, with my emotions, and it means that I'm going to feel a hurt inside that I don't fully understand and that I can't stop.
I sometimes wonder if it means that I'm an emotional fraud because I don't naturally feel upbeat and happy though I'd guess that most people see me that way. I just don't feel that way all the time and I struggle mightily with my mood. I have to force myself to slap a smile on my face and see the half-full glass. Sometimes I'm successful, but other times the effort is impossible and all the joy in the world still leaves me aching.
I know that my only hope was to be distracted or to get my circulation going so I tried to get out with my boys and get in some exercise. I really did. I pulled out walking shoes and actually was holding socks in my hand at one point. The wind kicked up just a little and the trees moving in the breeze caught my eye. The movement kept me looking out the window and, before long, I noted that the melancholy weather mirrored my heart. I sighed heavily and sat down, hugging my boys to me and desperately trying to not cry in front of them.
Thankfully, we had some things going on today and it kept the sadness away for the most part. I may feel empty inside, but I'm not going to start weeping in front of a contractor or in front of my son's teacher. That's actually one of the ways that I know it's not depression. . .I still have a slight measure of control and I can force myself to get out of the house.
When we arrived home, my son brought me a flower that he picked from our front yard and I gave a hollow smile with a quiet murmur of thanks for the gift. I stared at it as he scampered off, thinking that I was holding something that had been living and was now dead in my hand. It was considered lovely, but was pulled and tugged on until it broke and it died. He regularly picks these flowers and I know that it will begin to close and shrivel up before the afternoon is over. Usually I put them in a shallow bowl of water, trying in vain to keep them open and looking pretty. Today I'm just staring at it, wondering if I'll notice the minute that it begins to change. . .the very moment that it goes from looking vibrant and alive to looking withered and dead.
Trying to keep my shit together is such a delicate balance and one that is so easily disrupted. As soon as I'm able, I want to grab my shoes and get out. If only it were possible to outrun these feelings. This melancholy is tiresome.