Sadness took over my mind, seeped into the marrow of my bones, constricted my breathing –

and I liked it. With open arms I welcomed it, a friend I hadn’t seen since I was twelve.

Each day I felt sorry for myself. Happiness was a locked door and I threw out the key. I lacked

the authority, the zeal to break in, to save myself. I drowned myself in a pool of pity, lukewarm

carmine that turned scorching. I liked the way it made me feel, isolation replacing

indifference.

I was empty, but empty in the best way. I no longer had to smile, and I remember what a relief

it was, no more tension in my jaw, no more worries about my teeth being crooked, no more.

It’s amazing what your mind believes the more you repeat it. I no longer had to guilt

myself into being sad – I was already there. Each day I woke up, my hands trembled,

emptiness in my gut. My stomach ached for something more than the bitter isolation

I shoved down my throat every morning.

I was addicted to sadness, transfixed by the control oozing from my pores, refusal to go back

to being weak – complacent – happy.