by Ang Kia Yee
I must begin to admit it: I am depressed. These griefs are eating me up, ounce by ounce, as I continue moving as if I feel nothing at all. It is an outsized coagulation of sadness, anger and helplessness that I do not know how to chip at. The return of restrictions is causing last year’s wounds, which I’ve barely begun to address to myself, to become infected. I am a body of pus.
There are so many things that I feel I must carry on doing. The world does not stop, and because of that I feel I cannot. There is much work that needs to be done, many things I want to do with this life. So I’ve tried and managed to convert emotion into energy and action, over and over, but I’m beginning to wear out at the seams. Especially now that, as A and I talked about briefly, the pandemic timeline is stretching out again. The slow-building bit of hope we were feeling has died.
How to repair? Firstly, I think I must allow myself to grieve. I can no longer beat myself over the head for daring to feel these things. Vent diagram: Yes, I am in a place of considerable comfort and privilege, but also, yes, I am brimming. I am depressed. I am struggling to do things.
What kind of process or ritual does my grief ask of me? How can I begin to move through its choreography, how can I honour what its presence means: that I love and empathise deeply?