Relapsing on Sadness

Maybe sadness became my drug.

I wanted it. I craved it. Even when it hurt me, distanced me from everything I loved, I ran to it. Wrapped myself in it. Hid inside of it.

I don't know much about addiction besides what I've read in books, studied, assumed, but I'd imagine it feels a lot like this. Knowing something isn't healthy, but yearning for it anyway. Feeling like you are choosing it, when really it has chosen you. 

And you can't do anything about it. 

Or maybe you don't want to.

I know I didn't want to. I loved my sadness. For months I woke up and consciously chose it. I chose it like I had the choice. I closed my eyes to the morning sun and told myself, "Today, I choose sadness." And so it was. Months blurred together in a haze of false control.

But I reached a point where I didn't want it anymore. I saw my island. I saw how cut-off I was from the word and realized that I was responsible for the flood that left me detached. I acknowledged the water, but was too afraid to look in its reflective surface. Yes, sadness was in control, but what now? What could I possibly do?

I had to start believing in something bigger than myself. Bigger than sadness. 

Hope. Faith. The possibility of the impossible. That maybe I was going to be ok. Better even. These thoughts seemed crazy, but just crazy enough to be true. And in this new state of serenity, I started believing in a life without sadness. A life where I didn't want it, or crave it. Where I wasn't wrapped inside it, or hiding within it. Not hurt or running, but stable, safe, and connected with everything I love. 

But then there are nights like tonight when I feel like I'm relapsing on sadness. I try to remind myself of the beautiful words I've etched into my heart like hope and faith, but they aren't as shiny as they usually are. They mock me, laugh at me, make me wonder why I ever thought such pretty words were true. It all feels like an illusion. The only thing that feels real is the sadness that's crept it's way back into my life. Flowing through my veins as if it never left my body.

Maybe I'm an addict 

and sadness is my drug. 

Although I don't know much about addiction besides what I've read in books, studied, and assumed, I do know that recovery lasts a lifetime. I will always be recovering. 

But the difference now is that I believe in something bigger than myself, bigger than sadness. 

The possibility of impossible
A belief in something better. 

The Blue Heart

Somewhere in my darkest moments of searching for strength, I rediscovered the word resilience. For me, resilience meant acknowledging the weight in my heart and committing to fight each day by carrying it with respect. This pledge of resilience was sparked by a quote that I found: "Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, 'I will try again tomorrow.'" I posted a picture of it on my Instagram with a caption that read "Resilience" followed by a blue heart and a bear.

The bear was a pretty straightforward choice because Bear was a name that I called Blake. The blue heart was chosen mainly because I remembered Blake telling me that his best friends from high school used to call him Blue. I'm pretty sure he got this nickname simply because he liked to wear a lot of blue clothing (high school boys are so creative). I also chose a blue heart because it didn't feel right to use a cheerful pink heart when mine felt so sad. I chose blue because it reflected the sadness of loss. And from that point forward, all of my Instagrams about Blake included the little blue heart emoji.

(Fast forward to a couple months later) As I shared in the post about Blake's birthday, I had a really hard time figuring out what to say to him as I sat at his grave. For several minutes I stared at the assortment of sand, shells, and sea glass that Blake's mom had offered me to give to him as a present. While zoning out, one of the dark blue pieces of sea glass caught my eye. I picked it up and noticed that it was almost heart shaped. I squeezed it tightly in the palm of my hand, brought it up to my heart, and sent a message to Blake. Finding the heart gave me the inspiration I needed to connect with him. 

After I finished, I looked over the piece of blue sea glass again and realized that it was almost the exact same size and shape as the heart already engraved on Blake's headstone. When Blake's mom and Nana came back over, I told them the story and showed how it matched up perfectly. Blake's mom thought that this must be a sign and encouraged me to get super glue to affix the sea glass to his headstone. Now the blue heart is a permanent part of it.

As I was reflecting on this meaningful moment after I got home from Blake's birthday weekend, I decided that I wanted to get a piece of jewelry with what had now become a very significant blue heart. Not only was the blue heart something I had been using all along in the captions of my pictures of Blake, but now a blue heart in the form of sea glass had popped out at me and helped me find the strength to deliver Blake a birthday message at his grave. On top of all of that, while I was searching for jewelry with blue stones, I discovered that the blue sapphire is the birthstone of September, the month Blake was born in. It was all too serendipitous and perfect.

The blue heart necklace I ordered arrived in the mail yesterday. When I wear it, I will think about the different blue hearts that have become part of my life thanks to Blake. I will think of Blake's best friends, who gave him the nickname Blue that inspired the little blue heart emoji in all of my pictures. I will think of his family, who generously allowed the blue heart shaped sea glass to become part of his headstone in the same way they have lovingly taken me in. And I will undoubtably think of the loss of my true love, Blake, whom I will carry with me forever inside of my own blue heart. 

But most importantly, when I wear this blue heart I will think about resilience, the word I vowed to live by when my connection with the blue heart first began. The blue heart will remind me that courage doesn't always roar. Resilience is not about bouncing back immediately with smiles and positivity. Sometimes bravery is a quieter determination, slow, but with consistent resolve to always try again tomorrow. 

Choosing Sadness

Some days I intentionally choose my sadness. I wake up and decide it would feel better to fully embrace how shitty I feel that morning. This hurt is like my favorite old Tshirt. It is unbecoming, oversized, and worn out. Under normal circumstances I would never wear it in public, but some days I just want to put it on. It is unseemly, but fitting. I can't be bothered with how it looks because it feels like exactly what I need.

This morning I chose sadness. I turned off my alarm, looked at his picture, and decided I needed to self-indulge. Waking up is hard. Reminding myself he's never coming back is painful. Adjusting to my new normal is so overwhelming that sometimes I'd rather not try. 

So I picked up the sadness that I called my old Tshirt. Putting it on felt comforting. I could relax in all of its baggy, giving fabric. The size of it made it possible for me to hide, to disappear inside of it for a while. 

I tried to take it with me to class. I wanted so badly to wear sadness all day long. But I was clothed by a room full of smiles, styled in the pursuit of knowledge, and adorned with the warmth of new friends. I looked down and found that I wasn't wearing my big Tshirt anymore. I was actually dressed for the day. 

At first I was upset. This morning I committed today to sadness, willingly gave myself over to be consumed by it. When I started to laugh, participate, and enjoy myself, it almost felt like going back on my word. I didn't want to be disloyal to my sadness because through everything, it has been my most consistent ally. I could always find it when I needed it. I could always slip back into its suffocating, but familiar embrace. 

But then I allowed myself to smile.
I realized that although today I chose sadness, happiness chose me. 

Triggers

There is such an overwhelming sadness that has settled into my heart. It's there, lurking, hidden delicately under a seemingly normal facade. I can try my hardest to ignore it, put it out of my mind, pretend it doesn't exist, but the sadness always resurfaces. Without fail. At any given moment I am a slight nudge away from tears. Anything can set me off:

• I wake up in the morning and my first thought is you.
• I see the picture from our first date framed on my nightstand. I check my phone and the background is us at the aquarium.
• I see soda. I see ice cream. I see basically any form of junk food that I know you would've wanted.
• It's 11:11, I make a wish like we always did. I remember begging you to tell me yours, but knowing it was always about us and our future together. I was wishing for that too.
• I pass a dog that I know we would've talked about for the next 10 minutes. I realize we'll never buy our Moose or Milo puppies.
• I mention your name because I like how it sounds and I need to hear it. I watch as people grow uncomfortable and don't know how to react.
• I see a young couple in love. I see an old couple in love. I wonder how I can ever feel that kind of love with someone who isn't you.
• I see the ocean and remember that San Diego was our dream. 
• Someone asks me how I am. I lie and say I'm ok. I realize I'm not ok.
• I hear a song we loved to sing to on the radio. I hear a song I hate but would've listened to because you would've loved it. 
• The sunset is beautiful.
• I get frustrated and seek your guidance. You always knew what to say to make me feel better.
• I actually start to have fun with my friends. A wave of guilt swallows me. I'm not having fun.
• I purposely start thinking about you. Memories of us happy, deeply in love, and smiling replay in my mind.
• You aren't here to kiss me goodnight.
• I squeeze Blake Bear.
• I beg you to please come to me in my dreams so maybe we can be together for a little while tonight. It's been too long. I need you with me.

Every minute is a battle, every day is a war. 

Although I may appear fine, my heart is wrestling with constant triggers of sadness. Can I acknowledge these thoughts, but let them pass silently? Do I give in to them and let the tears flow freely? Should I try my hardest to avoid the things that I know set me off? Do I even want to stop being set off?

Right now, the thought of not thinking about you is scarier than letting my thoughts be consumed by you. So I allow myself to live with the triggers and even seek them out at times. At least if I'm thinking about you, you're alive in my mind. If I can cry about you, at least I know my heart is still capable of feeling something.

Sadness has embedded itself so deeply into my heart that I actually find comfort in it now. It's a strange sense of familiarity, of safety. In a time when so much has been taken away from me, at least I know my sadness will always be there. At a point where I'm constantly having to put on a front, least I know that my sadness in genuine. I need the triggers. I welcome the sadness.