*This post contains spoilers but only of super old books and movies*
When the 6th Harry Potter book came out, I was in rural Mexico with a friend. We took a special trip to Walmart so I could buy The Half-Blood Prince the week it came out, and I read it almost all in one sitting, just as I had done with the previous five Harry Potter books.
When I got to the part where Dumbledore died, I was devastated. And I know people use that work quite often, but I mean, literally, I was devastated. I felt like a friend had died. I was in shock, grieving, and stunned. I cried and cried and couldn’t get out of bed. I tried to hide this from my friend and probably told her I was sick or something.
I was so sad. Really, I was severely depressed. When I am depressed, I can’t differentiate between sad reality and sad fiction. I was mourning Dumbledore like he was a good friend, not a fictional character.
That is not the only time it has happened. I was reading a book once where a dog died. The dog was old and had had a long, happy life, and passed away quietly in his sleep, but it felt like it destroyed me. Depression somehow made me have no filter between reality and fiction.
Depression has been creeping up on me again lately, ever since the breakup in April, my book release (a good milestone but any type of change/accomplishment is hard and I keep being reminded that my ex is not there to experience this with me), and the cold, dark winter. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when I took my 3.5 year old nephew to see Babe (the pig movie) recently and I cried through a lot of the movie. Only a couple of animals died or were kidnapped and it was done very lightly, and he (not even four years old yet!) was a little scared but fine, and I was crying in the dark. Because the overwhelming sadness is back. I’m fighting it better than I have been, but it’s back.
I don’t want this grief.