Why Infinite Sadness?
Lately, I’ve been feeling lost. Not the kind of lost where you take a wrong turn and end up two exits past your destination, but the kind where you feel broken in places you can’t point to. The kind where the sadness feels endless—truly infinite. That’s what I’m trying to unpack today.
I’m stuck in this loop of unhappiness, like I’m locked into a state I can’t pry myself out of. This isn’t new; it’s something I’ve been wrestling with for years. It always resurfaces whenever I hear the word anesthesia. A word I can almost never spell on the first try. (In fact, as I typed this sentence, I botched it again.)
And then there’s Anna. I’ve talked about Anna extensively—“my girl.” She isn’t actually a she, of course. She’s a manifestation, a psychological construct I use to pull myself out of this ongoing shit-show of a life without pulling myself out entirely. She is my Infinite Sadness.
This is not a cry for help. Save the psycho-babble for someone else. This is simply an honest acknowledgement of a very specific thought on a very specific topic—yet another piece of the infinite sadness puzzle.
This morning, I dropped one of my cats off for surgery. The receptionist/tech—let’s call her Betty—handed me the anesthesia waiver, that familiar moment. And right then, like a reflex, a verse started playing in my mind:
Betwixt birth and death
Every breath regret
I pity the living
Envy for the dead
At first it was faint, like background noise. Then it grew louder, climbing slowly toward the front of my mind while I tried to maintain some semblance of composure with Betty standing there.
I told her that whenever I hear the word “anesthesia,” I think of “She’s My Girl.” She looked confused. As we walked to the exam room, the lyrics kept building until it felt like the song was physically vibrating in my skull.
Then Betty asked—curious, innocent—“What’s that from?”
I told her: a Type O Negative song.
More confusion. “Who is Type O Negative? I’m not sure I’ve heard of them.”
I respect that kind of honesty. Smart woman, that Betty. I told her they were a 1990s/2000s goth metal band. And as I said it, Peter Steele’s voice surged in my head, drowning out everything else for one perfect second—serenity, actual serenity—before the world snapped back into focus.
I could practically feel Betty’s expression even without seeing it. Judgment. Curiosity. Maybe both. I’m used to that. I expect it now—in how I speak, how I dress, how I exist. But that’s another conversation entirely.
And no, before you wonder, this is not a reference to the Smashing Pumpkins’ Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. Great album, though.
A colleague recently told me how distressed they were by how distressed I seemed. They were genuinely worried—worried enough to tell me it was a problem. Meanwhile, I’ve accepted it. I’ve accepted that happiness is something I will probably never experience in any lasting way. I’ve said that here before, more times than I can count.
When I talk about happiness versus Infinite Sadness, it’s because sadness is my baseline. I carry it in my mind and in my heart. I’ve lost things—people, moments, pieces of myself—that I loved deeply. Cherished, even. Loss that most people will never understand. And I’ll never understand their internal worlds either. That’s the deal.
Everyone has their own shit. Mine is just as unique and fucked-up as anyone else’s.
Another friend likes to give me grief for never slowing down, never doing anything for myself. She means well. She tries. But we both know there’s a coldness in me that doesn’t thaw so easily.
People don’t understand how someone can live without happiness. They don’t get it. But I take enough medication that theoretically I should be both happy and sad simultaneously. And honestly, I believe both can coexist.
My version of happiness is movement. Doing, working, learning, not sitting still. That might not fit the “self-care” narrative people love to preach, but whatever. Happiness doesn’t have to be some warm fuzzy feeling wrapped in a Hallmark quote.
And yes, everyone “pleasures” themselves, but that’s not the kind of happiness I’m talking about. Let’s be real.
“Taking time for yourself” is a vague phrase anyway—about as vague and misused as “hate speech.” (Yes, I’ve written about that too. A few times.)
For me, happiness is the lack of stillness. Because time is running out. We all have a clock ticking down.
I feel better—less awful—when I’m busy, not when I’m parked in front of a TV like a fucking sloth doing pointless consumerist shit.
I know the Infinite Sadness. I know it because I am it. Cold. Dark. Distant. Hell, I’m not even a planet anymore.
(Yes, that’s a Pluto joke. And yes, Pluto should still be a planet. That’s how I was raised. ?)
I want to believe I’ll be happy one day, but that’s fantasy—nothing more. A pipe dream. I want the people around me to find happiness, even if it’s something I’ll never hold.
And that brings me back to the title. I didn’t mean for this to turn into a musical reflection or a sprawling emotional excavation, but once I started writing, it all poured out. This is where it needed to go.
We will never fully “get it.” That’s the point. We will never get it. That is the Infinite Sadness.
If nothing else, read the goddamn lyrics (below). Maybe they’ll pull everything into focus.
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