Am I Cold, or Sad?

Henry Wordsworth Longfellow was once quoted as saying, “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”

I’ve been thinking about that quote lately, as the world has grown topsy-turvy and I find myself in an unsafe place. One of my defense mechanisms is to withdraw, like one of those potato bugs that curls into a ball at the first sign of danger, its hard outer shell offering a modicum of protection from the harsh reality of nature.

But the potato bug is small, and the world is very big. A threat of any consequence would easily overcome the tiny armored exterior. If nothing else, the insect could be completely crushed, smashed flat by an attacker.

That reality doesn’t stop the potato bug from curling up when danger lurks. Maybe it’s just one way for the bug to make it from day to day, confident that the instinctive reaction repels the enemy every time, until of course it doesn’t, but then the potato bug would be dead, you see, and the whole point would become moot, at least to the potato bug.

Getting back to me for a moment – when I’m feeling unsafe, or unsure, and I retreat, do people think I’m cold? Unapproachable? Distant? Aloof?

Maybe. Probably not those who know me well, and that’s admittedly a rather small group. Potato bugs don’t show their vulnerable underbelly unless they have to. But do I care about everyone else? And if the answer is “no”, does that make me less human? I don’t think it does. But if I had all the answers, I wouldn’t be sitting here in the shadows, typing black letters on a white screen.

Maybe it’s the difference between being detached and dejected, or separated and sorrowful. I’ve never been a “misery loves company” kind of guy, so it stands to reason that dysphoria could often be mistaken for distance. I take a pill for that. Maybe it’s time for a new pill?

I don’t know. I should probably ask about that the next time I see my doctor.

I’m not cold.

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