Just (Part 1)

A deep sadness filled his heart.

There was no warning, no precursor, no trigger.

No impending doom, or premonition of things going wrong.

He had friends, a loving family; even a dog who grinned stupidly every time he came home.

The job was one he loved—carving things from raw wood, shaping them into everyday functional items: chairs, tables, cabinets. He loved crafting things with his calloused hands, injecting them with their own spirit, wondering what sort of life lay in store for these products of his love. He found great pleasure in simply running his hands along smoothed wood, caressing the grain as tender as any lover. Applying the final coat of varnish with long, careful strokes. His work was his pride and joy; his workshop a haven.

Still, a deep sadness filled his heart.

He was blessed to have a loving wife—his true soulmate. It was a cliché, but she completed him. A source of constant positivity and joy, she encouraged his art and it had been thanks to her unyielding support that he had been able to make a career from his passion. She was kind, compassionate, fun and daring. She coaxed him constantly from his shell, and he loved her infinitely for it.

Nevertheless, a deep sadness filled his heart.

There were no children yet, but he was thankful. Three years was too short a time to properly languish in one another’s company, and he knew his wife felt the same. They were so caught up in loving one another that there really was no room to spare in his heart for children.

And yet …

This hollow feeling, this emptiness, this darkness that reared its ugly head constantly was reminder enough that his heart was divided. After all, how could he be so consumed by love for his wife and still feel this ever-present sadness?

He’d seen a doctor, of course. Back when he’d first spent a week in bed, unwilling to find the motivation to get up, let alone go to work. It had frightened him, this invasion of an emotion so ridiculous, so unexplained, so ruthless. What did he have to feel sad about? Why did it leach from his heart to consume his entire body so thoroughly? Why should he be unable to feel anything but this unjustified sadness?

The doctor told him to exercise more, and eat right. To call a certain number ‘if things get really bad’. He threw the phone number away and decided he’d have more luck cheering himself up if he just thought it through logically.

No matter how he worked through the problem in his mind, though, trying to explain this unfounded emotion, he could find no solution. Ultimately, it seemed to be just a hiccup in his otherwise perfect life: sometimes he was sad.

Once, he’d tried to explain it to a friend. The way it permeated his entire being, until he was paralysed into inactivity, his thoughts consumed by a sadness that had no foundation. His friend had appeared puzzled.

‘Why don’t you just do something that makes you happy then? Or think about something good?’

His friend, he realised belatedly, could never comprehend the magnitude of what he was feeling, until that friend had experienced it himself.

After that, he never bothered trying to explain it to anyone. He moulded his face into an expression of contentment, and henceforward he alternated between his two faces: the one he wore in public, and the one which revealed his true anguish only when he was alone.

There were pills he could take, of course, and home remedies suggested by insightful friends that meant well. Therapy was always an option, but how would talking about things help when no one truly understood the depth of his ailment?

After all, it was just sadness, wasn’t it?

His mind suggested alternatives, too: ropes, pills, high buildings and veins that could be emptied of the darkness coursing through him. His reaction to these perverted thoughts was twofold: a thrill at the idea of being free, then an immediate revulsion that he might so easily be swayed.

He’d heard stories, of course. You’d have to be living under a rock to not know the word depression, and understand it was the reason people blew their brains out or took a dive over the rail. Maybe he thought about those things from time to time, but he wasn’t like those others. He wasn’t mentally ill. 

He was just sad. He intended to live, which meant he was not the same as those others that people felt sorry for, and spoke about in hushed tones.

He was perfectly normal.

A deep sadness just filled his heart sometimes. That was all.

***