Have you ever felt so sad and low that you can’t even muster up tears? Or maybe it’s just sad and low, to a certain edge, but not any further into true dripping sorrow? Like the feeling one gets just before orgasm, except for crying? Like you need just one more minute of one more horrible thing – don’t stop, right there, oh god YES – and then you’d start full-on bawling?
I was Almost Weepy yesterday. Bereft for no reason. All the usual measures of comfort – books, donuts, my favorite TV shows – didn’t cut into it.
I do not like crying. I wasn’t a cry-baby little kid. I’m not a crying kind of lady. Crying happens maybe, I dunno – three times yearly? Not a crier.
But Almost Weepy happens every so often and I don’t get it. I’m blabbery and honest, which makes some people label me as ‘negative.’ True enough. But I’m mostly happy. I’m mostly sunny. I’m mostly cognizant of my good fortune. My reasons to live.
But then I have a weird day. I dunno if this corresponds with the arrival of my Monthly Days of Lady Rage, because I rarely track that kind of thing. Maybe it does. Probably. It doesn’t feel like depression. It feels like near-boredom. It feels like something is broken in me, some nameless gland responsible for pleasure.
I tried all day to find that thing that would soothe me and fix it. Things that make me feel accomplished or pleased or like cracking a smile at Life In General. And nothing worked.
I finally took a walk with my dog Pablo. I listened to some good music. I looked at the pond. I was pensive. I was blown-away at how sure I felt that something was Wrong, though I couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the Wrongness. So I just let it happen. Felt Almost-Weepy. Pablo didn’t care. Or notice. I wished I had longer to marinate in this state, sort of stare at it from across the bar, I guess. But I had Shit To Do.
So I snapped on my face and took off Pablo’s leash and went back to pretending I was okay. And then I wrote this.