In conversation the other day I remarked how I believe I have been melancholy all of my life.  Melancholy.  Ponder that for a moment.  Some might equate melancholy with depression, and it’s true depression is often experienced as melancholy.  Still, there’s another way of looking at it.  Melancholy could also be seen as pensive or the act of deep reflection or thought with a feeling of doubt and questioning the present reality of things.  And that for me is where I connect to the word and the experience.  I am self-aware enough to know that I’ve been through times of depression and have sought out support as a result. 

Growing up I was always searching.  Searching for a friend.  Searching to belong.  Searching to be accepted and loved.  I remember from the time I entered first grade through the sixth grade I attended a different school each of the successive years.  No wonder I was melancholy!  I could hardly find time to land at a safe place when change and upheaval would occur.  Such is the life of a boy living in the home of an alcoholic parent.  Alcoholism, though, is a subject for another day.

What all of this instilled in me was a kind of discontent.  Could I be happy?  Was happiness elusive?  Could I simply be…be myself and accept myself without feeling like I was missing out on something?  Believe it or not, even without the ability or understanding to put into words what I was feeling, these were the questions that tracked me throughout my childhood and still, to this day, tap me on the shoulder and remind me that the search is not over. 

I take a bit of comfort in this:  that if the search isn’t over then there must be the hope that happiness, acceptance, love will be found.  Truthfully, I don’t want the search to be over for then I will have given up.

Just the other day I was reminded that, with all of my failings, struggles, and brokenness that I was simply accepted for…me.  

How amazing that is and even more amazing is that melancholy has no room here.