Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness

I was hanging out with a friend last night. It was late. It was minus thirty-nine. And I was sad.

Since sad is such a generic term, allow me to unpack it. Sad: The uncomfortable kind of dolefulness. The kind that makes your liver ichy. The kind that makes the bottom of your cerebellum burn. The kind that seems unquenchable and makes you wish that time could bend, or just break. For once, just break. The kind that makes a rabbit's burrow seem like the most gezellig (learned it from a friend) place on earth. The kind that make your subcutaneous tissue feel like straw. The disturbing kind. The kind that would make Vincent Price feel ashamed.

Now you're there with me. Now we're at the bottom of the ocean.

To those who have been given much, much is expected.

But I can't obey it.

I just don't know how. There are not enough fractions of minutes. I try though. I really try. I brush my teeth and shower at the same time. I eat a meal and try to cook the next, and bake cookies at the same time. I file my toenails and check my email at the same time. I research canadian residential schools and write papers on John Donne at the same time. I invite people over for dinner and wash the baseboards at the same time. I know how to save time.

But I don't want to.

I'm a student. A good student too. I'm an artist. I can find things to make that other people haven't made before. I can mobilize. I know how to lead people and speak truth. I can learn. I know how to exercise critical thinking. I can play music. I can learn new instruments quickly. I can write. I can read a lot of books. I can make people laugh. I can host a great party. I have many great friendships. I can climb mountains and smash volleyballs. I have mentors. I have mentees. I can speak my mind. I can change things.

But sometimes I can't.

I know people. I can make people feel good or bad about things. I am empathethic. I am sympathetic. I am compassionate. I am an introvert or extrovert where appropriate. I am warm. I am gentle. I am emotionally intelligent. I am trustworthy. I always fight for you. I am always on your side. I am a lover.

Except when I'm too busy thinking about myself.

Where do we draw the line? When is it okay?

I have a habit of feeling obligated to exercise everything I have. But how far?

On of my mentors told me to go into therapy to determine my boundaries. One of my friends told me to just focus on one thing at a time. One of my friends told me people were my greatest gift. One of my friends thinks it doesn't matter what we do only how we do it.

i don't know what i've told me yet.