Sad on purpose

Melancholy by the ocean

Lands End, San Francisco, 2015

Oh the melancholy I can feel at the edge of the ocean. The good kind—the kind that makes you feel like you’re the main character in a tragic, well-written novel. It is the wind, perhaps. Or maybe the scale.

I first felt it while perched on a rock high above Tamarama Beach in Sydney. I was far from home, in a new relationship, and that windy rock high above the frightening (to me) waves was just the place for me. I asked myself some hard questions, up on that rock.

I felt it again, years later, in this spot, Land’s End, in San Francisco. The same ocean, only even wilder, and colder. The familiar melancholy, only older. Only this time, I found myself turning away, not wanting to linger.

Turning away from melancholy has been a hallmark of my life since I became a parent. I’ve avoided shows, music, and books that have the capacity to make me sad. When I’m sad I turn inward, fold double, triple, quadruple into myself, and so the instinct to stay on an even keel was partly self-preservation (if I become overwhelmed with sadness, I won’t be able to take care of my children) and part willful resistance (my children make me happy, and I want to stay in that place, always.)

I got really, very good at it. But then, I weaned my youngest and depression descended. It had been so long since I felt it, I didn’t recognize it at first, and attempted to keep it at bay by spontaneously buying an inflatable hot tub. It didn’t work (both the hot tub, and the attempt at staving off sadness). I spun, wildly, into depression—something that had been a regular part of my life before kids, but I had nearly forgotten about. It was terrible.

I stayed in that dark place for a week or so, riding my hormonal rocket ship into the ground, before I could begin to get a handle on myself. But when I did, I made a promise to myself to not be afraid of sadness anymore, to open myself back up to melancholy. To not look away.