I just want to be heard and understood. Not told that someone understands, but shown, to know that someone understands. Like the difference between bad literature that tells you meanings and emotions and good literature that evokes them in you.
About 15 years ago I had a counsellor who recognized my emotion and named it. He said I was profoundly sad. That was the most validation and understanding I have ever had.
Most people can’t do that. They just try to lard it over with some attempt to look at the bright side. They hope I had fun or enjoyed myself. Well, no, I didn’t. I was profoundly sad. I struggled through the battlefield because I am courageous, but it wasn’t fun, for fuck’s sake.
When I get a chance to dwell on the sadness and let it out, sometimes I take pictures. The cellphone makes that easy, a way to take multiple images with low cost and no effort. I have a whole folder of them, me frowning and face twisted in sorrow. Tears, an expression of anguish, and the easy inference that loud cries occurred at that time. I was alone, with no one to care for me, just me. My validation of my own emotions.
I like looking at those pictures sometimes. A break from the rest of the world where sadness is pretty much banned. I would love to post a bunch of these pictures, but I am not going to show my face.