I'm not very good at feeling sad.
I'm very good at not feeling sad.
Either way, it's not helpful right now.
My parents, bless them, have always tried to distract me from sadness. They would offer hugs, snacks, drinks, games, trips out. They would exhort me to count my blessings and look on the bright side. All was, and is, done with the best intentions. They are both incurable optimists, and have done their best to pass that on to me, with a great deal of success. I'm happy about that; I like being a positive, cheerful person.
Sometimes, though, I think I need to be sad. I wish I didn't. Victor Hugo wrote of 'the pleasure of being sad' but it doesn't feel like a pleasure to me. Maybe it's my conditioning. I can see the point: access to full range of human emotions = good thing; can't fully experience happiness/joy without experience of sadness/grief - fine. I'll take my sadness medicine, but don't expect me to like the taste.
Some people love it, don't they? A weepy film, a tragic book, a box of tissues and they're happy. Or, rather, sad. But happy to be sad. That doesn't work for me. I don't mind sad bits in books or films, as long as the end is happy, or at least not entirely sad - but I really resent being left with a big wallop of sadness inside me.
Regular readers of this blog will be unsurprised to hear that I use alcohol to distract myself from sadness. Not at the moment, though. So I'm feeling all my sadness very thoroughly. Maybe this is one of the Horrible Truths that Jumbly Girl warned me I'd probably have to face. I'm facing it good and proper, so can I have a glass of wine now please?