Ennui

Reporting live* from my best friend’s bed where I’ve spent 10 straight hours crying and contemplating; fully believing that my body was shutting down and that I was going to die.

I haven’t posted on Instagram since January 15th. That’s around the time I noticed that something was off and gave it a name: sadness. Before then, I just felt blah; a prolonged sense of ennui.

Loads of people I’m connected with online are looking for me. I’m not a big-time influencer (I’m not an influencer at all) nor was I an avid poster, so at first this seemingly relentless pursuit weirded me out; the fact that I’m receiving messages from people I don’t know well or see often; that these people noticed my unannounced hiatus and wanted to do something about it.

I’ve got people looking for me in real life, too. The people I spoke to daily and hung out with weekly—this makes more sense. They keep inviting me to things (most I’ve declined; few I’ve attended). I just didn’t want to answer the “So, how’ve you been?” question.

Short answer: Not good, and you? Four words to kill time spent with friends fast. Not my jam. Unfortunately, I’m the Beyoncé of my friend group whether I want to be or not.

So, I had to step away. I had to distance myself from the highlight reels of other people’s lives and go full-on hermit. Like, yes, I truly am happy for your new ___ (insert: baby, engagement, graduation, job, trip to Europe), but my life isn’t picture-perfect right now. Life isn’t exactly giving me any lemons to make lemonade with at the moment. And only now am I coming around to the idea that that’s okay.

It’s just that my presence on social media was beginning to feel so fake, so performative. My engagement with others hasn’t all been genuine, but merely a reminder that I still exist. Hey, I’m still here! I see you out here living your best life! Don’t forget me! The “likes” I was handing out were me convincing myself that I wasn’t a hater and that I could (and should) be happy for people even if things weren’t happening for me.

One of my best friends called me recently. She was worried that she hadn’t been a good friend to me over the last several months; that she hadn’t shown up for me in the ways she felt she should. She said, “I know when you get like this isolation is your main girlie, but I can’t help but think that I haven’t done my part as your friend.”

Nonsense. Isolation is my main girlie. I prefer my darkness to be mine and mine alone. I wouldn’t dare rain on another’s parade. And that’s the beauty of friendship; for someone to know you so intimately that they abide by your rules of engagement in your time of need even if it means overriding their own.

*I wrote this two and a half weeks ago, but decided not to post in the moment. I’m feeling a bit better now, albeit still not active on Instagram.

I’m slowly but surely coming out of this year-long sadness. I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Things haven’t completely worked themselves out yet, but I’ve started taking phone calls again. I’m itching for a good girl’s night (and the debriefs that follow the next day). Little blessings are finding their way back to me again, and I’m grateful for each one regardless of the form they take.

I want to go and be and do and see.

I want to show up for myself and for the people I love without the burden of sadness.

I want to smile and laugh and be young and dumb, and it all be genuine.

I want to be here and be present.

I want to live.