On May 7, 2021, I didn't feel sad about feeling sad for the first time. I was in the office of my therapist. It may appear simple, but it was a trick I'd spent years practicing and attempting to master.
I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder two and a half years ago, following a sexual assault immersion at school. I've always been an emotional person — "She has a lot of feelings," my best friend would chuckle when I got worked up about something or other in front of strangers — and my emotions are now massive. Frustration over a failed online makeup purchase results in so much yelling and foot-stomping that my neighbors complain. The intensity of a pop song lands like a punch to the chest, exploding any grief nestled there; Arianna Grande made me cry once. Sincerely: I am not easily moved by sadness. But, after a lot of retraining, I take it completely differently than I was raised to, and unlike almost everyone else I know. Now, when I'm not sad and think about sadness, it's accompanied by a startling thought: I miss it. Before therapy, this was the only thing I was ever taught about sadness, both implicitly and explicitly: it is bad.
You do not desire it. If you have it, you should try to get rid of it as soon as possible. Whatever you do, don't subject others to it because they dislike it. To be sure, sadness can be legitimately problematic. You can't keep living like that if your sadness comes from seemingly nowhere or even an obvious place but prevents you from participating in life or enjoying anything and refuses to go away no matter how long you let it express itself. But, culturally, we are not permitted to be sad, even for a brief moment. Even when it makes perfect sense. Even when we desperately need it.
I cried from uncontrollable, overwhelming, life-sucking sadness at times. And the sadness and crying itself freaked me out. I'd start crying and then immediately despise myself. What was I crying about? Why couldn't I get this sadness to leave me alone? What was the matter with me? I went to therapy. I'd been there before, casually and infrequently. It was now a therapy emergency. I thought I was pretty good at self-care in general, but I let it slip when I got too busy, when school was too demanding, or when I had to do things I knew I was getting too tired to do but did anyway. But taking care of myself was no longer an option. I had to make as much room for it as it required for survival.
One of my closest childhood friends died in a car accident around this time. I was devastated and couldn't think or feel rationally.
"How are you feeling?" my therapist inquired.
"It's a shame," I said.
Because of everything that had happened that day, I was especially sad. "I'm sad because one of my friends died." I was in tears as I described this. They were fantastic. My therapist understood because someone close to me had died, but when I started crying over minor inconveniences, she became concerned. If my favorite song came on the radio or I watched my favorite movie, I would cry. In retrospect, it was a little ridiculous.
My therapist was composed. She told me to open my eyes and then asked what sensations I felt. I immediately imagined a child playing soccer.
That's me right now, I reasoned. A child acting like a child and feeling sad about it—but not sad about feeling sad. That's all there was to it. It was all right. It was a moment of calm. I, or a child, being exactly what she was: alive.
The significance of this moment was obvious to both of us. I hadn't panicked every time something sad happened in my life, like a breakup, but I'd never had that level of acceptance. And, as a person suffering from PTSD, I had completely lost trust in my own emotions, constantly fearing them, sadness included — or perhaps especially, because it was the most persistent. I was finally accepting it.
That's how I came to be in a position to miss it. The intriguing nature of it. The distinction between it and other emotions. I recalled the sensations: the weight. The way it slowed things down and took up more space than anything else. It was exquisite, objectively, but also as evidence that I could feel that I was open and not shut down, capable of allowing a wide range of emotions to rush in and possibly overwhelm, but also move through and move me. The next time I felt sad after missing it, I remembered why it was so difficult to feel it all the time. It was excruciating. Working was difficult. Everything was. It was beautiful, but it was also painful and exhausting. I still believed that I needed it at the time, that it was expressing something important to me. I didn't despise or condemn it. I didn't feel stupid or weak. They say it takes a big man to cry, and I believe that is true — unfortunately, given our collective feelings about sadness. But it takes a stronger woman to feel the power of a sob without apology or shame. With honor. I'm the biggest I've ever been because of the way I let my emotions run wild, sadness included: the way it cleanses me, tears washing my face, resolving me to continue feeling sadness.
My experience with mental health has shaped who I am today and inspired me to pursue a career in healthcare. I'd like to help others in the same way that my therapist helped me. Though many of my relationships were harmed or destroyed as a result of my journey, I'm glad I've come to terms with it and hope to continue living my life to the fullest.