Most of the time, I feel completely alone. And I feel bad admitting that. Even when I’m with people whose company I enjoy, and whom I care about, there’s still this part of me that is entirely shut off, isolated. I rarely, if ever, feel that I’ve adequately conveyed what I intended. And even when what I say is the truth, it’s not the fullest truth I want to express.
It’s incredibly difficult to open up to people. Any person. I sugar coat and downplay a lot of my thoughts, all of my thoughts, sometimes. But this is not because I want to. I’ll internally beg myself to say something real, and then decide to backpedal at the last second.
Actually, I don’t know if “decide” is quite the right term for what happens. The decision is mine, but it’s not really what I want to do; it’s just what I do, so much of the time. Talking honestly about my problems is a skill I only sometimes have. And even calling them problems seems petty to me, which is partly the point.
I think I feel like I need to downplay my issues so I don’t burden anybody else with them. I don’t want to intrude. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable or sad. I don’t want others to be bothered with my absurdly small-minded woes.
I mean, really, in the big scheme of everything, what do my problems matter? They’re minor issues at best. At least, that’s true in the case of physical survival. Even with a low income relative to others around me, I’m fortunate enough to be safe, well-fed, sheltered, and even able to partake in some luxuries from time to time. I have a job I enjoy, working with people I enjoy. I’m in excellent physical condition, casually running longer distances than most people even consider.
I’ve got a lot going for me, more than most of the world, in fact. Even in my own country, I’m better off than most. I’m a cisgender, heterosexual, white male. Through traits over which I had (and have) no control, I embody privilege. I didn’t ask or plan for any of these things, but they have a distinct advantage in my culture, unfortunate though that is.
There are so many people, in so many places, that have it so much worse than I have. Who am I to claim I have problems? Who am I to expect anyone else to want to listen to my problems? Especially when their problems may well dwarf my own into trivial oblivion.
I’m not one to seek the spotlight. I don’t crave much attention. In fact, most of the time, I do prefer solitude to such things. At the same time, though, I want to be known.
I recognize something that stirs up some cognitive dissonance in me: human needs are more than physical. Physical needs are important. They are vital. Without meeting physical needs, other needs are irrelevant. Nothing emotional or mental matters if the body isn’t alive to experience those things.
I have the luxury of depression. All my physical needs are met, occasionally to excess. I have so much, while others have so little. If I were starving right now, I wouldn’t be dwelling on my loneliness; I’d be searching for food. If I didn’t have a shelter to protect me from a storm, I wouldn’t think too much about that one thing I said that one time to that person who clearly seemed like they may have misconstrued what I was trying to say a little bit and might now see me in a more negative light; I’d be hoping the rain passes quickly while I look for any sort of roof to hide under.
I feel such guilt for my depression. How dare I? Don’t I know there are people with real problems? What kind of audacity does it take to be this self-absorbed? I often feel like it’s some moral failing on my part to be as depressed as I am, which of course intensifies the depression. It brings me to a point where I just want to verbally regurgitate everything I feel compelled to say, but that sense of guilt robs me of the words.
So I sit here, alone, listening to some tunes, at once wishing I had someone to talk to and hoping no one tries to talk to me. Isolated, afraid of letting people in, afraid of letting myself out, ashamed of my privileged position and simultaneous desire for more. I don’t know how to be truly vulnerable, no matter how badly I want to. And I do want to. I really do. But I feel incapable.
Most days, I can deal with this shit in a way you would never notice. I can make it through the bulk of my social interactions without feeling like this. I can even go for longer periods of relative ease, believing I have something to contribute or feeling less like a burden, but symptoms have little effect on the root of the issue. No matter how long I make it without the recurrence of this depressive vicious cycle, I always find myself back here sooner or later.
In many ways, it feels like my baseline. And I don’t even mind. Honestly, I like being sad. I’m chill with an emotional downturn. Melancholy is just another word for beautiful to me. If that’s my baseline, I’m okay with that. I prefer it, even.
But this requires balance. It’s easy to get too deep in these emotions. They can take over, and often do. And when this happens, I feel like I don’t really have much of a connection to the human race. I’m one of you, but I don’t know how to effectively communicate with any of you. I desperately want to, but am crippled by fear and guilt and shame and hopelessness.
I wish I could say this is a personal referendum on my ability to be emotionally honest, but it’s not. I want to say I’m resolved to be more open and vulnerable, but I can’t. I would like to say I’m going to drop my walls and lower my defenses, but that’s not likely. I know this because I know me.
I know that even though I would want any of the people I care about to approach me with anything burdening them, I feel like no one wants that from me. And this because of me, not my loved ones. I’m ready, willing, and eager to listen and empathize, but it’s virtually impossible for me to realistically imagine that others are the same, no matter how much they insist otherwise.
Maybe one day I really will learn to open up, but today is not that day. I hope it happens though. I’m really tired. My problems may be trivial, but they’re still difficult for me to carry. And relief feels a long way off.