Fetishizing my Sadness
I am starting to believe that I fetishize my sadness.
The word fetish is often viewed in a highly sexual and suggestive manner. In its most colloquial form, fetishes or fetishism is linked to an abnormal sexual desire for something that is not inherently sexual. I refuse to go any more in-depth with this topic as this piece is not a discussion of that; in fact, I want you to eradicate the intrinsic sexual value of fetishes for the rest of what you’re about to read.
Merriam Webster’s second definition for fetish is fixation. A quick Google search (unbound from all sexual ideas) addresses fetishes as seeking and finding unusual amounts of gratification from something. The same source then shows us that the word fetish can be a synonym for mania, compulsion, and most of all, obsession.
If you ask me which moments of the month I am at my most peace, it will be times that I finally admit and realize how sad I truly am. I don’t force this realization at all; it just happens. As I wake up, as I walk the short distance from my room to my bathroom, as I eat my first meal of the day–all these moments have been a gateway to my realized sadness. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for me to be aware of how sad or how miserable I am underneath my assumed veil of “being fine.” It doesn’t take a lot at all.
The funny thing is that I take solace and comfort in being sad. When I’m sad, I begin to think that I am most myself. I create most when I’m sad. I get so much work done when I’m sad. I find reasons to stay alive (and also reasons to die) when I’m sad. I am so desperate to be defined by anything but my sadness, that I actively pursue things that stop me from being sad when I’m sad. But when the time comes that the sadness is about to leave, as a result of my search for happiness, I feel a sense of grief for the imminent death of my desperation and misery.
This is why I think I fetishize my sadness. Traits that I want to think that I am, such as creative, kind, smart, and hardworking, all arrive in their fanciest suits when I’m stuck in the darkest and loneliest corners of my mind. I am reminded that I am capable of not being sad when I’m sad. And this reminder is addictive, all-consuming, and joyous. This flighty sense of self and unstable understanding and view of my self-worth make subjecting myself to sadness and wallowing in it so worth it.
Obviously, The Sad Me isn’t all sunshine and rainbows (rightfully so); frankly, she’s also the worst person I’ve ever had the unfortunate chance of meeting.
The second side of the same coin is afraid of facing the reality that her life is meant to be lived in a cycle of sadness. The cycle follows the flow of being sad, finding comfort and happiness in sadness, the comfort and happiness then pushing me out of sadness, feeling and knowing that I’m happy for a few days, and then being sad all over again. It is tiresome subjecting myself to this repeated toxic pattern, but no matter how tiresome it is, I can’t seem to get enough of it.
My mental health deteriorates when I fail to meet the unfair standards I set for myself. As it deteriorates, I drag myself and everyone that I love and care about and everyone that loves and cares about me to this compounded shithole of trauma and despair, hoping that they can find a home in it the way I have. I subconsciously hold people to a higher standard simply because I do the same to myself, and it permeates how I form bonds and relationships with others. I expect people to do things the way I see how they should be done because I am an anxious control freak. I am afraid that everything I do will be seen as second best or not good enough because this same perception is all I’ve known my entire life. I simultaneously victimize myself and see myself as the perpetrator of harm in every endeavor I allow myself to participate in. I am absurdly inferior and superior to everyone around me.
At my core, I do not think I am a good person. Being aware of how shitty I am does not absolve how shitty I actually am. Self-awareness is not gonna save me from ruining the relationships I have with others, but it can be the first step to becoming better.
I have said that I’m getting better so many times that I’ve forgotten the gravity of the word better. I excuse my melodramatic episodes with the line “progress isn’t linear,” but where do we draw the line between the divergence of progress and just the blatant hunger for the familiarity of grief and toxicity? This placement is still something I’m trying to figure out myself.
Needless to say, I have made my suffering a part of my identity. A part that I accept and find solace in, but refuse to consider as something that is permanently etched in my being. The land of pure and lasting happiness may be unfamiliar to me, but that doesn’t mean that I will stop treading the difficult path towards that land. I might much rather stay in what I know is comfortable, but that doesn’t automatically mean that I should.
Seeking sadness and being sad are two very different things and establishing the difference between these ideas might just change how we view life. I am creative, kind, smart, and hardworking without my sadness, the same way that I can be controlling, selfish, and anxious when I’m glad. This complexity is what pushes us to doubt our understanding of human emotion, but even then, it shouldn’t stop us from feeling what we need to feel. It’s a lengthy process of getting used to welcoming all emotions, but it’s always necessary for getting ourselves from one spot to another.
I am starting to believe that it’s about time I stop fetishizing my sadness.
