On Melancholy

I recently worked on a project that required me to learn more about each Zodiac sign. Of course, I’m well-versed in the basics of astrology and have done some in-depth research about what it means to be a Capricorn. So, I was not surprised when my resource referenced my ingrained pessimism nor when it spoke to my “know-it-all” tendencies. These are faults I’m used to hearing about.

However, it was quite a jolt when I got to the section about my [Capricorn’s] “likes” and “dislikes.

The “likes” were pretty straightforward: family, tradition, routines. A list of organized, controlled settings and activities.

But then I got to the “dislikes.”

The answer?

I quote, “Pretty much everything at some point.”

I repeat. A Capricorn will dislike pretty much everything at some point.

Seriously?! How is a person supposed to live a life like that?

And, may I ask, what the hell was going on in the heavens during late-December, early-January??? Did those gaseous balls of rock and fire look down at all of the babies being born and think, you know what’d be great? Let’s collide (or whatever) in such a way so that every baby that’s born right now will hate most things in life. And then—when they think they’ve found something they kind of enjoy—they’ll find out that, actually, they hate that too.

And you want to know the worst part?

It’s true. Not only do I often lose interest in the projects, people, places and media that once drew me in so deeply that I felt consumed by them, but I also find myself in this strange world of melancholy on a near daily basis.

I’ve felt it since I was a child. And I think maybe I’ve always thought of it as introversion.

It’s a sudden feeling of disconnect with the people and the places around me. Detached.

During these moments, I think about how insignificant we are in this world. How at some point, we will no longer be on this earth. And that this earth will no longer be in our solar system. And our solar system will no longer be in the universe.

It’s like that kids’ song we used to sing about the bump on the log in the hole in the middle of the sea. Does anyone else remember that?

And it’s both relieving and terrifying at the same time.

I think maybe there’s a reason I was born mid-January. I think maybe these bouts of melancholy allow me to write. It’s almost like, when I get into one of these unattached funks, the world becomes clearer.

I can see what makes people act the way that they do. Why they say the things they do. Commit the crimes. Break the hearts. Continue to let their hearts break. Why there’s even such a thing as a broken heart at all.

And it’s not just sad moments that become clearer. I also see how beautiful it can be to find someone else in this world who understands you. How the joy of hearing their toddler’s laughter can move like music through a mother’s body.

The melancholy comes from the fact that, though I understand everything better in these moments, I also know that they’re fleeting. That I, myself, may never experience them. That the world continues to turn and all we have is the time we have.

You know, I take back what I stated earlier. I may have, later on in life, termed these melancholy periods as “introversion.” But the truth is, when I was growing up, I had a much more delusional reasoning behind these pensive doldrums. (Of course I did).

I remember watching the movie Arthur (the original one on with Dudley Moore—not the new one with Russell Brand). Liza Minelli plays the love interest and she explains to the main character that, when she was little, she thought the moon followed her. She thought that it meant that she was someone special. That she was going to be somebody someday.

I had this same feeling. And I think that this need to be special (seriously, Capricorn, get over yourself!) combined with my intense love of the fantasy books that led me to believe that maybe I was born in the wrong time or world. That I was lost in time or space and that the melancholy came from constantly missing something that I couldn’t remember.

[Note: considering that I’ve forgotten my keys, phone, wallet, lunch, umbrella, sunglasses, and just about every conversation I’ve ever had in a bar—maybe I wasn’t so far off with the whole missing something I couldn’t remember bit… ]

But, yes, as a kid, I thought these moments had to do with the fact that I was lost and that’s why I felt so removed.

Now, I’m not sure what I think. Is it really because I’m a Capricorn and am prone to negativity, pessimism and some narcissism? Was it something in my upbringing? My eccentric grandfather with his swinging moods or my practical grandmother who never let one pull one over on her? Or is it a trait inherited from my other grandmother who is always caring for others, humorous yet worried about the world in every way.

And I guess the main question is whether it’s a gift to have these states of unhappiness, unbending sadness. Or are they something I should be actively trying avoid? I’m not sure the correct answer and am not sure whether I have the control to make that decision.