There are some types of sorrow that busyness passivates, while types of pain that cause tears to trickle regardless of how many tasks engage one’s mind.

For the most part, I can function relatively normally. Sure, my mind may be cloudy most of the time, but the average bystander seldom notices the storm in my mind.

In fact, somehow, I still have a reputation for being “happy” at work. No matter what I share, no matter what I do, somehow this cult of positivity shapes me into what it wants to see. Others want me to be happy, so they say that I am.

In some ways they are correct maybe — I still find happiness in many things — but I’ve never considered myself a very happy person.

Melancholy — that’s the word I’ve resonated most with for my whole life. If you know me well, or if you listen to my words and read my writings, you know this to be true. I’m comfortable in the sadness. It’s a part of me, it’s a part of me that has loved more deeply than most can fathom.

I used to think my melancholy demeanor was bad. My mother certainly thought it was. She used to pray that I wouldn’t be so melancholy. She rejected that piece of me, so I tried my best to hide it from her for years.

As I enter into conversation after conversation, it’s dawned on me how much insight melancholy provides. It’s become a favorite part of myself — a piece of myself I can finally freely accept.

I think the concept of melancholy scares people. Our society is so afraid of pain, but it’s this pain-avoidance that results in horrific atrocities. People fear their sorrow, so turn it into anger instead. Unchecked anger produces strife, dissonance, and murderous behavior. Avoided sorrow creates depression, mental illness, and unavoidable pain.

We’re all a little sad. We’re all a little melancholy. Denying that reality creates a disillusionment with our souls, and all disillusionments must break. Sometimes we break our own delusions, sometimes they break us instead.