I’m miserable. And that’s okay.

Photo by nikko macaspac on Unsplash

When you tell people you’re unhappy, the first thing everyone wants to do is pat you on the back and tell you to hang in there.

Sometimes these thoughts are subconscious and fleeting. They’re intrusive, buzzing around your head like a swarm of gnats. Other times these thoughts are deliberate, prodding, severe. You linger on them like a dream gone too soon and drag them to the surface to observe them like pucker-lipped koi fish.

Why does the default have to be joyous? Why can’t we be comfortable in our misery? Why can’t we acknowledge that sometimes life just really, really sucks, and that’s okay?

I don’t mean to imply that it’s wrong to try to help people. It’s not a selfish act to try to convince someone to keep fighting. It’s not even necessarily a wasted effort. It’s just not always the right thing to do.

Women are especially prone to the bombardment of emotion-policing that occurs when they dare be vocal about their struggles.

When someone gives birth to their child, we reward their joy and wallow in that, usually for what seems like an annoyingly long time. So why is it that when someone posts or talks about having a difficult time, we immediately herd them into “looking on the bright side”? If we stopped policing the way people process their emotions for our own sakes, maybe we wouldn’t feel the need to drown those emotions for their sakes.

LA reject with a passion for prose and an obsession with compassion. I’m radically transparent about my personal experiences in health and wellness.

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