In Praise of Sadness

I have blog guilt.

For almost two weeks I have avoided writing a new post because I felt I had nothing to offer that was not going to be tinged with sadness. This concern came after a conversation with a dear friend who, looking out for my best interests, suggested I remove all references to depression in my blog. She advised the same thing for future dates -- do not talk about my struggles with depression. For a brief moment, I could see her point.



But when I thought about it more (which I have done obsessively since the conversation two weeks ago), if I had followed her advice when choosing a partner, I would have missed some of the most interesting men I’ve ever loved.

But the other thing is, my blog's purpose is not to lure dates. And, more importantly, if I am a depressive (I still prefer the German “melancholia” for describing my particular bent vs. depression, which is essentially pathologized sadness vs. melancholia, which is poetic sadness), then shouldn’t I pitch myself as I am when I am on dates? I mean, otherwise I’m basically false advertising, and at some point, when my peppy cover-up cracks, which it will, my poor date-guy will get the real me and won’t he feel duped? “Wait a minute! I thought you were a happy person!”




Besides, advising me not to be sad is like telling a dog not to shit.

I am not sad all the time, of course. That would be exhausting. But I am sad probably as much as I'm happy. And anyway, what’s wrong with sadness? Why would I try to live on only one end of the spectrum all the time? When I began writing this, I was listening to Simon and Garfunkle’s Bridge over Troubled Water – music of my childhood: my father’s music. And it suddenly hit me that I was already sad as a child, and that’s because I was carrying my father’s (and mother’s) sadness, especially when listening to his music. It was also a sadness belonging the songs themselves. In other words, there was an abundance of sadness to tap into, so it’s what I cut my teeth on. But also . . . hello . . . sadness exists! And since it does, why not welcome it? Befriend it? Express it?


And that’s why David Kramer’s blog (http://toothlessalcoholic.blogspot.com/) came as a huge relief. My friend, Ann, directed me to it. In his blog – the Toothless Alcoholic – David Kramer (he’s one of those guys whose names cannot be divided: he’s not David or Kramer; he’s DavidKramer), openly, and with well-honed self-deprecating humour (the man’s a Jew so he can’t help it), he writes about his love for, and struggles with, alcohol, greasy food, his weight, his art career and his deep fear of a Republican win on Tuesday. David Kramer is fucking funny. And also sad. But good sad. The kind of sad my friend, Ann, coined when her son was a baby and he would go from laughing to crying to laughing in the space of 10 seconds – happy-sad. It’s kind of like good-evil. Or sexy-ugly.

Anyway, like DavidKramer, I like to face life's challenges head on. And take responsibility for my feelings. Kind of like I'm saying, "you want to throw pie at me? Well, I can do you better, I’ll take your damn pie . . . "



... tape it to my face . . .


... and then squish it around! Yum!"

My artist friend, Sara, paid my sadness touching homage. For my 40th birthday, she made me a shadow box entitled Waiting for Rain. That's me . . .

I have never felt more seen and appreciated for who I am.

I know that there is no formula for feeling safe in this world. Perhaps my friend who advised me to hide my depression feels more safe when she does not risk exposure that could lead to rejection. But for me, exposure happens to make me feel more safe than hiding because then I feel the person who has seen all of me and still loves me must really love me and not some fantasy or facsimile of me.

It seems to me, the whole point of doing this . . .


. . . . is to be able to do this!




As my friend, Jacline, used to say, by this age, we've all got baggage. And, frankly, that's the stuff I find intriguing. Besides, I feel as if I've done it all in terms of addressing my sadness, including pretzelizing and filtering myself silly in order to attract unconditional love, and not just the love of lovers, but my mother’s love, the love of certain friends, and so on. And the only thing that ever makes me feel lovable is wearing myself not only on my sleeve but on every last shred of my being.


And, finally, one last thought: how can you hope to be unconditionally loved when you do not love yourself unconditionally?

(The paintings with text are David Kramer's -- one of my favourite artists.)