“What do you mean you’re sad? You’re always happy.”
The words bounced around in my head last night as I lay back on my porch and looked at the stars. They didn’t seem to be shining as bright as they should be on such a clear August night. Maybe it was the long-forgotten memories I was allowing to rush in.
The words seemed so ridiculous at the time – especially because the mouth that spoke them belonged to the root of so much of the sadness I was feeling back then. In retrospect, they make perfect sense: At nineteen, I would put a smile on my face and make a joke even while my heart was breaking.
It’s a self-destructive defense mechanism that I still struggle with at twenty-five.
Nostalgia can be dangerous in an addictive sort of way – it has certainly always been my favorite drug. Sometimes I attempt to remove myself from present woes and future worries by lamenting on pain from the past.
I tried to do that last night.
I tried to remember the feelings, but there was nothing there. I remember the moments and what was said, but the connection is gone and all emotions absent. It was like trying to remember some movie I saw in high school- and a movie with poor acting and a lame script at that.
Cicadas chirped in the distance and the cement slab cooled my back.
And I felt nothing.
I’m still trying to decide if being numb is better or worse.