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.
***
Diana here from Aussie Readers. I really enjoyed that.
ReplyDeleteExcellent Krystal!!
ReplyDelete