Hi me, this is yourself. You want to talk to me about something.

You weren’t going to talk to me about this today, or tomorrow, though you thought about it last week, when I posted yet another self-denigrating comment attached to a pair of links.

Listen, me. I don’t suck. I am sad.

I am sad for a number of reasons: the school year is ending, and my students don’t want to learn anything. There are a number of stressful things happening in my life, mostly around the end of the school year and graduation, but also with my writing, and with the summer, and with my house, and with family. People around me are hurting, and I want to help, and I usually can’t. All those things make me sad, and you know it.

But I also know that being sad when hard things and sad things are going on is not a failing. It is not a weakness, it is not a mistake: it is a reasonable response to a situation that I can’t control.

It is also bothering me that I can’t control the situation. I really, really want to. You do too. But I can’t. Not even the things I want to control.

I can’t control how my students feel about school. They don’t want to learn at the end of the year. This is neither new nor surprising, students kinda never want to learn anything (though they always want to learn interesting and useful things, and that should say something about the curriculum we teach in our schools, which they do not want to learn most of the time), especially not in the last month or so of school. I’ve always fought that, you know, because I hate wasting time, and I want the students to gain as much as possible from their opportunity to learn, particularly a love and appreciation of learning, and also a love and appreciation of literature and language. But I’ve always, always failed. No, that’s not true; I have instilled something of a love of learning and of literature into some of my students, and I have encouraged the love that was already there in a number of others. I have helped students get through difficult times, and made their lives easier and better. But I’ve never been able to do those good things with all of my students. Maybe that shouldn’t matter to me, but when I keep hearing about how children fall through the cracks and get forgotten, how every student is precious and none of them should get left behind — it makes me feel bad that I fail to reach all of my students.

And then I tell my friends and fellow teachers not to take it to heart when they can’t reach all of their students, when some of their students have issues and opinions that no teacher will ever be able to touch, or solve. Especially now: because the pandemic had long lasting effects on students, and they, like us, are sad. They are dealing with a whole lot of shit, and it’s hard, and they’re not good at it. It doesn’t help that the adults in their lives are dealing with our own shit, so have less time and energy to help deal with theirs: but we can’t be sorry for that. There’s only so much of our shit we can push aside in order to deal with someone else’s shit, before we just pile up too much shit of our own, and we can’t handle it any more. I think I’ve been doing that a lot for the last few years, and I don’t think I can do it any more. And I’m not sorry about that.

If I should be sorry for anything, it is not taking my own advice to heart. Because I really, really suck at that. But that doesn’t make me suck: it just makes me like everyone else. Which also makes me a little sad, because if I can’t even solve my own stupid issues, then how can there be any hope for humanity? My issues are stupid: I am smart. I should be able to solve those stupid issues, I tell myself all the time. And yet, here I am, feeling bad for feeling bad. Partly — but not entirely — because if I could simply solve all my issues, then I would have so much more capacity for helping those around me deal with their issues, which I really want to do. It’d be awful nice if I could do that. But I can’t. And I feel bad about that. For still feeling bad.

I was just talking to a student that struggles with depression, and I was telling them that they are not allowed to feel bad for feeling bad. Depression is a real thing, and feelings are not logical and cannot be reasoned with; we have essentially no control over them, and therefore should not feel bad about having them, because you shouldn’t feel bad for things that weren’t your choice, which you can’t control. And there I was, telling them they shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling bad, which they do because they are empathetic and intelligent enough to recognize that their sadness makes people around them sad, as well; but feeling guilty is useless, and trying to remove or reduce feelings because you don’t like them has not ever worked and will not ever work.

And only at the end of that conversation did I realize that I was telling them to stop being illogical with their feelings, that the feeling of guilt wasn’t reasonable and therefore they should be able to eliminate it, by reasoning with their feelings and taking control of them to eliminate them. Like the feeling of guilt is any different in essence from the feeling of depression.

And only this morning did I realize that I am doing exactly the same thing to myself.

I shouldn’t be sad. I have a good life: I am a respected and even beloved teacher, with complete job security and a sufficient if not entirely satisfactory income. I have my health: I have never been seriously injured or seriously ill, and I can pretty much do everything now that I could when I was 25. I am proud of my past accomplishments, and of the person I am. I am married to my soulmate, and I love our family of pets. I do not suffer from clinical depression, nor from past trauma. I should be fine. Sure, my country is currently mired in a political shitshow and an economic train crash, and the globe is filled with political unrest and violence, with hatred and suffering, with climate change that will make all of us and our feelings moot…

Sorry, I was going to say that none of those things should make me sad: but of course they should make me sad. They are sad and terrible things, and I am an intelligent and empathetic person, and I recognize the state of the world around me, and how it could and should be so much better than it is.

Also, my feelings aren’t reasonable, and don’t respond to logical argument. I can’t even say that the desperate state of the world is the reason for my sadness: it’s not clear to me that my sadness has a reason. It might, of course; I started this post off with a list of reasons why I am sad, and any or all of those might be the cause of my emotions. It also might in that there are things around me that create stress in me, and that stress, unresolved as it is, is more likely to bring my mood down, even if the thing itself isn’t necessarily sad; for instance, graduation stresses me out, because I have to be the MC for it (I don’t have to, but it’s expected of me and I agreed to do it, so that’s stressful), but I’ve been the MC for graduation for the last five years, and it’s always gone fine; and also, graduation is a happy day; and also, it’s not about me, so I could screw it up in a dozen different ways and nobody would care at all, because they’re focused on the graduates, not me. But I’m still stressed about that. And about renewing my credential. And about finishing my grades. And about all the other tasks I have to do in the next month or so. All of that might be what’s making me sad.

But it’s also entirely possible that I’m just sad. For no reason.

And the important thing is this: it doesn’t really matter what the reason is, because emotions are not logical. They do not necessarily come to me because of reasons. To be more clear, there may be reasons, in that there may be triggers, situations and thoughts and experiences that create despair or sorrow or grief or anxiety, which then transforms into sadness and depression; but it’s essentially impossible to know the single cause of my sadness and to therefore address the single cause of my sadness — and therefore remove the sadness. I can find the potential trigger, and I can address it; but that’s not necessarily going to remove the sadness. Because sometimes I’m sad for multiple reasons, and solving one might even highlight the others which I can’t solve. And sometimes, I’m just sad for no reason.

I just had to go through that last paragraph and change the pronouns: because I had written it, as I often do in these posts, using “we” and “one,” as in “We can find the potential trigger, and we can address it; but that’s not necessarily going to remove one’s sadness.” I started this post talking to myself so I could face the truth head on: I am sad. It’s affecting me. I can’t simply control it and remove it. That is the truth. I want to face that, and say it to myself, so I hear it, from me. (I’m just dragging you along into my internal dialogue for the hell of it.)

And, as I realized both from talking to my student and in reflecting on it with regards to myself, I can’t control the feelings of guilt and inadequacy that happen in me because (If these feelings are caused by anything?) of that sadness. See, I don’t think I should be sad. I try to talk myself out of being sad by telling myself there isn’t any good reason to be sad, that on the contrary I have many reasons to be happy. And I frequently am happy: though not as frequently of late. Too much sad time. But that sad time is getting in the way of the things I want and need to do: I should be writing blogs — I was supposed to write a book review of the excellent book Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein, which I just finished reading and discussing with my book club — and I should be working on my novel and I should be working on my house and I should be grading my students’ work; and all of those things just sitting out there unfinished is stressful, and that’s not helping me.

And yet when I came in here, to my office, to write the book review, instead I spent half an hour scrolling idly through Facebook. I don’t even like Facebook that much any more. But I still look at it. Same thing with Twitter: I almost hate Twitter nowadays. But I still look at it. I tell other people that social media is probably not good for their mood; I tell myself that I should avoid getting into arguments online and reading negative and hateful things; but I still do both.

Because I’m sad. And I don’t have the energy or will to do the things I know I should be doing. Which, of course, makes me (Does it make me?) feel guilty and also pretty useless; and then I feel bad about myself, and that makes me (?) sad.

Or maybe I’m just sad in the first place, and these are reasons I’m applying to that feeling in some attempt to take control of my feelings, and change them through logic and reason and force of will.

Which, of course, doesn’t work.

My student told me that they have had other conversations about being depressed, and people have asked them why they were sad: and they can’t come up with a reason. They’re just sad. And then they felt stupid because they couldn’t explain reasonably why they were sad. I immediately responded that there doesn’t have to be a reason for sadness, sometimes sadness just is, and they should never feel bad about their feelings. (See how good I am at telling other people about their problems? This is why I needed to talk to myself about this.)

But I still asked why they were feeling sad, when they told me they were. Because even though I know that emotions don’t necessarily have reasons or reasonable causes, I still act like they should, and we should be able to deal with our emotions through considering those causes and then addressing them.

The problem, of course, is that sometimes it works. Sometimes talking about why we feel a certain way makes us recognize apparent causes for our emotions; and sometimes — more rarely, but still, sometimes — we can then address those apparent causes, and feel better. (Sometimes — often, even — simply talking about them makes us feel better.) Like, I worry a bit about my health. I am 48, and I am a bit overweight; not too much, but I have a pretty sizeable amount of body fat around my middle. Which is unhealthy for someone my age, as it puts stress on my cardiovascular system. I also eat WAY too much salt, drink WAY too much caffeine, and I have high blood pressure — for those reasons, and also because of stress from my job (and everything else) and also because I don’t sleep well. Because of stress and so on, and my tendency towards insomnia, which I inherited from my father. And also probably (definitely) because of the caffeine that I drink. So, okay, I should address these things before they become too serious — before they become risks to my health, before I have a heart attack or a stroke. (When I think about this, I think of my grandfather, whom I never met because he died of a massive stroke before I was born. But I try not to think about it too much. It might make [?] me sad.) So I started meditating, about two years ago. And I started going to the gym, which I have done off and on for years now, but I’ve been good about it for the last four months or so. I have also cut down my caffeine intake, though it hasn’t yet paid off in good, solid, consistent sleep.

But I have seen results. I have lost a little weight. I have gotten stronger, and I have more stamina. My sleep has improved, and the meditation has maybe had an effect on my temper, which I don’t lose as often or as intensely as I used to (Though that also may be because I am sad, and particularly because I am tired. But it may be the meditation.). My blood pressure hasn’t gone down and stayed down — but also, my measurements for that are from when I donate plasma at the Red Cross, and there are other likely reasons for my blood pressure to be high when I go to get stabbed with a needle and then drained of my precious bodily fluids. So the worry about my health has brought to mind issues that may contribute to my anxiety, and to my sadness, and I have acted to address the problem, and I have seen some results.

But then I look at the images of myself recorded by our video doorbell, and I think, “Jesus, I’m fat. When did I turn into a potato?” And then I’m sad.

And notice that my reason for feeling sad is nothing to do with the other reasons I mentioned for why I worry about my weight.

And realize, also, that my video doorbell is not a fair camera: because it is a fish-eye lens, intended to capture a wide field of view, and not intended to take flattering pictures of me as I water the plants. Reasonably speaking, I shouldn’t feel bad about either my health or the way I look.

Hey, maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m sad because my father is grieving, because he lost his wife of thirty years this past February, and though I can talk to him and support him, and he says often that talking to me makes him feel better, I can’t make him not be sad, which makes me sad. Also thinking about my health makes me think that I need to make sure I am as healthy as possible because I don’t want to die and put my wife through what my father is going through. Also I don’t want to die. Maybe thinking about that is making me sad.

Maybe I’m sad because I can’t go visit my mother this summer, because I have to do too many other things and my school shortened my vacation, and I have too many things I want to do.

Maybe I’m sad because I have too many things I want to do and not enough time, and that stresses me out, particularly when one of those things is write: because I need to define myself as a writer, or else I will only be a teacher, and that would make me sad because I can’t make all of my students learn all the time, and therefore that makes me feel like a bad teacher. Also teachers don’t get paid enough, and I don’t want to think of myself as undervalued. Not that I get paid as a writer, of course, or at least not much. I don’t sell that many books.

And maybe I’m sad because I don’t sell many books, and so it doesn’t matter if I write the next book or not, because even if — WHEN — I finish it, it won’t sell, and that’s because I’m not that good a writer, and I should just go ahead and accept being a teacher. Even if that means everyone who disparages me and my fellow teachers online will have a better case for criticizing me, and I may have more trouble ignoring their criticisms by telling myself I’m really a writer as well as a teacher.

Maybe I should stop arguing online with people who disparage teachers. Though I do feel like I should take action when I can to make our world, and especially our society, a better place, and that means standing up to people who say nasty things, and correcting and teaching people who don’t know the truth or don’t know the whole story — and that means arguing. Even though it frustrates me and makes me despair, sometimes, because people just don’t listen or don’t change their ideas or their feelings, and no matter what I say or how I fight, I can’t control their feelings.

Maybe I’m sad because I can’t change people’s feelings: not my dad’s, not my students’, not my friends’. Not mine. I want to help all of us: but I don’t have control over that, over any of it, because emotions aren’t something you can control with willpower and rational thoughts.

Maybe I’m just fucking sad.

But here’s the thing: and this is the point I’m trying to make, and the reason why I decided to write this instead of the book review (Which I will write — it’s a good book and one worth reading, even though it’s depressing [Hey, maybe that’s why I’m sad…]): because while we can’t control our feelings with our thoughts, and we can’t even really control our thoughts (Also, that’s why I’m bad at meditation, which is a stupid thing to think, and one that the teachers on the meditation app I use keep telling me not to think, but the truth is that I can’t focus my attention solely on my breathing: the thoughts keep coming, and I keep focusing on them, even after two years of practice. I feel pretty dumb about it, and also kind of desperate because of it, because if I can’t keep myself calm through meditating, then what can I do to control my blood pressure or my anger? [Hey, maybe that’s why I’m sad…]), what we can control is our behavior.

I don’t like that I’m sad. I have shit to do, shit that I know will make me happier, but I have trouble making myself do it — because I’m sad. I don’t think I deserve to be sad, which makes me think both that I’m not really sad, and also that I’m just being self-indulgent, having a little pity party, when actually my problems aren’t that bad and I shouldn’t be upset about them. People around me are much sadder than me, for much better reasons; I should be supporting them, not making their situation worse by being sad all over the place. (Also, I shouldn’t be talking about it on this blog. This is going to make people sad, and that’s a terrible thing for me to do. But I’m doing it. [Hey…])

But rather than telling myself that I shouldn’t be sad, or that I’m really not sad, what I should do is: give myself room to be sad. Maybe don’t worry about the weekends where I can’t bring myself to write a blog. But if I do worry about that and feel bad about it — because I can’t actually control my feelings — I can still do something: I can not apologize, or be mean to myself. I don’t deserve to be mean. I don’t deserve to suffer my meanness. Nobody who reads these blogs needs or wants an apology from me on the weeks when I can’t bring myself to post. If I don’t feel like writing a particular post, rather than trying to force myself, or getting mad at myself for it, maybe I can post something else, like good links. Or maybe I can write something else, like an overly personal babble about my feelings, instead of an insightful book review. Will those things make me feel better?

As of this very moment: yes.

Though maybe I feel better because I also just took a break, took my dogs outside, cleaned up the yard a bit and watered the grass so the tortoise will have something to graze. And stood out in the sunshine, which was warm but not too hot.

I don’t know why I feel a little better now. My feelings aren’t rational, and the causes aren’t clear. But the fact is, I do feel better, and so it’s reasonable to think that maybe I can do these same things again and feel better again. Maybe when I am sad, I can write about being sad, instead of trying to ignore it. Maybe when I can’t face doing a large task from my home improvement list, I can do a small one. Maybe when I think about the problems I am having, I can also remind myself of the things I’m doing to make them better — how I’m supporting my dad, even if I can’t “fix” him. How I told my student that they can always be sad, and can talk to me about it if they want to, even if I can’t rationalize their feelings and therefore eliminate the bad ones; and that made them feel better. How even if I haven’t lost all the weight I want to yet, I’ve still gone to the gym twice a week every week for four months now, and I can see and feel the results. How even if I can’t empty my mind like a Buddhist monk, it’s still good for me to sit quietly and breathe deeply for fifteen minutes or so a day.

And maybe I can stop looking at myself in the videos from that goddamn doorbell.

And what I can do, for sure, is to stop apologizing for my feelings. Because I didn’t choose them and I can’t simply control them: so they are not my fault. And while I can try to work around the limitations that my feelings put on me, the first thing I have to do is recognize both the feelings and the limitations, and accept them. Because by doing that, I accept myself — whereas apologizing for myself and my feelings tells me that I am wrong, that I have done something wrong, and that I should fix it.

That act sucks. But I don’t.

Thank you for reading this. Thank me for writing it. Let’s try being better to ourselves, first. We’re worth it.