Small Dose

The human mind has an incredible ability to protect itself when confronted with overwhelming sorrow. When the pain is too great, the mind is thrown into a “state of shock”. Somewhere, buried inside us, is a trip-wire that finally closes the floodgates when we are suffering. The system isn’t perfect. It seems the only way to guarantee we don’t feel the pain is to initially put us in a state where we don’t feel anything at all.

It would be great if once we started feeling again the outstanding pain could just be discarded. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Instead, this big vat of sorrow is set aside in reserve, to be doled out in smaller, manageable amounts over time. The frustrating thing is not always knowing when you’re going to get a dose. To be sure, there are certain places and dates that you expect to elicit some sadness. It’s the unexpected cases that always get to me. Also, the reservoir seems to be bottomless, although it may just be that the doses are mercifully small.

Over the years I’ve built up a tolerance that dulls the sharpness of each dose. Now it often manifests itself as a sudden feeling of melancholy that disappears almost as soon as I comprehend that it has arrived. In some weird way, it’s almost comforting. Like an old acquaintance stopping by just long enough to say hello. Like I said, it’s almost comforting.