Melancholy is such a beautiful word for sadness. But sad isn't what I am. I suppose I don’t have melancholy. I feel like I’m trapped in a large empty house. Devoid of warmth and people but also empty of coldness and ghosts. It is nothingness. No fire burning in the fireplace, yet no storm raging at the door. No laughter, no harsh whispers. It feels empty. It feels like nothing.
I braced myself in the shower floor, steamy water raining down on me. I braced myself for tears and the pain of rejection and loneliness. Instead, I sat there staring at the wall as nothing came. I was not happy and I was not sad; I was empty. My feelings trickled down the drain. Like a defense mechanism, built from being overwhelmed by feelings too many times. Self-preservation kicks in, and this feels like a much crueler fate than sadness.
I have been sad many times. This is not sad. This is a black hole. I don’t know where my emotions have gone, but they have vacated my person.
The walls we build around us to keep sadness out also keeps out the joy.