The Cure for Melancholia is a Bookstore and a Burger
Finding little joys in familiar places and routines
I have, in my adulthood, grown to love Sundays. They signify a fresh start — a reset for the week ahead. I prefer my Sundays to be slow yet productive; the rituals of laundry and long walks, a gentle start to the week. But occasionally, on a Sunday, I am overcome by a melancholia so deep I feel it aching in the pit of my stomach like a bruise.
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It is not a feeling as deep and wide as depression — or even sadness — but rather a general unease and discontentedness — a detachment. I think for a moment, as I lay on my bed, about the irony of feeling detached in a world where social media and technology claim to bring us all together.
I consider going to the movies — one of my favorite solitary activities — just to get out of the house, but nothing that’s playing appeals to me enough to get out of bed. I could go for a walk, but I feel a strong need to be both surrounded by people and disappear into a crowd. I find solace in my solitude, but even my introverted brain needs to be around people in moments where I’m feeling a deep sense of disconnection to the world. I gain enough momentum to pull on a sweater, get in my car, and drive to Barnes and Noble.
Surely melancholy cannot exist within the walls of a bookstore.
The store is teeming with people when I arrive. In a decision that is wholly uncharacteristic of me, I do not intend to buy anything. Instead, I just look, spending upwards of two hours circling the store, the energy of which slowly brings me back to life. There is just a certain pulse to bookstores that is unlike anything else.
I pick up and leaf through dozens of books, their titles and summaries blurring in my brain like watercolors. As I reach to pull a book off the shelf of the nature section, a toddler comes teetering over, tiny blonde ringlets bouncing on her head with each wobbling step. She points to a gorilla on the cover of one of the books and giggles, looking back at her mother. I smile beneath my mask. Children experiencing pure, unfiltered joy never fails to make my heart clench. It’s small moments like this that help me regain a sense of connection to the world. I feel lighter, like the looming mist of melancholia is starting to dissipate.
The sun is just beginning its afternoon descent as I step out of the bookstore, a golden glow creeping across the blue streaked sky. I realize as I get back into my car that I have nothing to eat for dinner at home, and decide to stop by the grocery store.
I stroll up and down the aisles of Whole Foods, eyeing flaky glistening pastries, an array of seafood, and fresh produce. Parents are pushing their toddlers in their carts full of groceries for the week ahead. Couples are trying to decide between gouda or brie for their dinner party. I feel a sudden and fleeting sense of embarrassment at shopping alone, at asking the man behind the seafood counter for one single serving of salmon. “Just one?” he clarifies. Just one.
But what about that is embarrassing? I recently read an old interview of Jenny Slate’s where she talks about the difference between loneliness and solitude. “I've been in a long process of trying to understand the difference between loneliness and solitude,” Slate says. “Part of that is not being afraid of being alone, and then getting past that fear, and then starting to separate out what is loneliness, and what is solitude, and what is privacy, and what is secret?”
As someone who lives on my own, I often contemplate the concept of loneliness. Does this melancholy, this discontentedness, stem from loneliness? I realize now that most often what I feel instead is solitude, and there is no shame in solitude — the shame only comes from others who cannot simply sit with themselves and be content. I believe one’s ability to be comfortable with their own company says a lot about who they are as a person — there is a real strength in being your own companion. “Now I don't feel lonely at all,” Slate continues. “It feels like a big injury that healed.” I think Slate and I are very much kindred spirits in that regard.
Upon returning home, I’m greeted by my cat who slinks out from my bedroom and circles around my feet, sniffing at my grocery bag. I decide to make myself a cheeseburger for dinner with the ground beef I picked up at the store (yes, man behind the counter, just one serving). It’s something I’ve been craving in particular since I saw The Menu (if you’ve seen this film you’ll understand — and if you haven’t, please do yourself the favor of watching it).
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I could probably count on one hand the amount of times in my life that I’ve cooked myself a cheeseburger. Typically it would be something I only order in a restaurant, but I’ve found a sense of joy and accomplishment in cooking more for myself lately, so I turn on my stove and decide to make it at home. I now see cooking as an act of self-care, and it’s the small acts of caring for yourself that can transform loneliness into solitude — melancholia into contentedness.
I hang up my apron and sit down to my meal, plated by candlelight and soft jazz. I cheers to solitude.