Mystery of Misery

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As long as I can remember I’ve fallen hard 4 to 5 times in life. Literally fell into the ground and injured. The most ancient one I can recall was falling from the stairs of my grandfather’s home when I was between 5 or maybe 7-years old. It teared the outward of my bottom lip. The second one was tripping in school during break, and then hitting a large jagged-stone right in the face. This happened in 8th grade. Another one was when I already had a toddler. That time, I lost steadiness from trying an inline skate in a hardware store. I was tumbled down and fall on my left hip. All of these stories I never made any fuss. Stories that’s just remained a mystery of misery. 

Keeping the mystery of misery

But amongst those collapses, there was the hardest one. It happened when I was just a month-old from having the c-section of my second baby. My almost four-year old son had these impulses of throwing things from a certain gravity ; balloons, eggss and glasses at home. A few times I managed to catch him before anything breaks. But this time he outrun me, and so I leaped farther than I should. Realizing it was a horrendous decision in a split second, I try to held onto a chair, but the chair couldn’t bear my weight and I hit the floor sideways. It slams my left rib and skull. At that instance, I find it really suffocating to breath or even to talk for nearly 3 minutes. Staying still, half-crouching. My husband wasn’t home, and a babysitter had just arrived the day before, so even she didn’t have a clue who to call and too afraid to lift me all by herself. I was okay, and finally able to stand despite a groggily motion.

Do all misery really need company?

Tears were rolling as I was resting that evening after the incident. Not because of the pulsing migraine or the nausea. But because I have no one to talk about it. Because I tell some people and they have their own opinion that didn’t comprehend the misery. The feel of abandonment I created myself for not getting checked because of getting used to hushed sufferings. No MRI’s, no x-rays and no doc. A personal, unfathomable faith on keeping the misery a mystery. 

The migraine persist years and years later specifically every 2 days prior menstruation. The memory lingers and not any close friends or my family knew. Not even my parents at that time when they were still alive. Misery can have company if you wanted it but with baggage too; care not exceeding your expectation or an overly caring you don’t really need, and judgements you resent. Either way, the pain’s going to stay until it is truly recovered or your body befriends it. 

I have a certain belief that if you keep your life low-key, and not informing your surrounding more than necessary, everything goes by smoothly. Your plan and your comeback after the fall. I believed when the universe witness that we don’t talk much about our achievements or our pain and grief, it will conspire to made things work. It will magically ease up the pain, and securing your success from harm. That’s the actual mystical core of keeping a mystery of misery.

Mystery of misery for the people with minus empathy

If you choose not to have a mystery on your misery and fishing for random people simpathy in social media, best believe to brace yourself with the risk of unpleasant feedback. Or even no response nor attention at all. Likes and views are kinetics. Only a scroll and a click. We know nothing about their true intentions. If Brene Brown said to be shared is a privilege, than speaks about your misery only to the ones who deserves it. 

Again, nothing is foolproof in the case of making expectations towards others. Not even a setting of close friend on instagram or a phone call or a text away from your bestie. Relying on human consolation can only reach a half-way guarantee of the final feeling you’re looking for. Not everyone is a willing listener.

The other percentage lies somewhere between the mood of that person and the timing of which you told your story. Not to mention when they are in the middle the better, more fun “don’t disturb” party or their own chaos at the same moment you have your issue.

Misery changes your life 

Suffering alone not only excruciatingly sad ,it can also always find its tunnel to depression. Most people get through it, but the rest endure it silently. 

My life weren’t designated to be a stuntmant, but yes we still got injured. The latest fall I had was a month ago in late April 2024. A house assistant that has been working with me for five yeara resigned, and chores after chores I never have to worry about before, stoop in every day, every two hours. 

After nearly 4 weeks of house work, one morning, I was so exhausted and frail from an eye infection, and lost my balance while holding a luggage from a 3,1 meter high-iron circle stairs. Exactly at the fourth step. I hurl and twist my body to look for grip. Failed. The second attempt with my left hand, but it wasn’t too strong, so that failed too. So I blurred my vision and hit the wet soil. I cried and screamed loudly like a toddler, a boost of emotional release filled with shock, resentment, and helplessness. 

the iron circle stairs

Husband ran to calm me, and then soon after, the kids. “That stairs got to go…”. I said after managed to calm myself eventually. The battered leg, knee and hip also the bruises started to show three days later. Bonus, a tinitus on my right ear a week after. 

Narrating a Misery 

This time I didn’t keep the misery. I took two page of instagram stories and showed it. The narrative of the confession plain and simple ; I fell from a horrific stairs from my own home. Some showed sympathy, others don’t understand the symbolic reel of a kid tripping and twisting and falling just exactly the way I fell down that morning. 

I share it without remorse, and exaggeration. Then, I move along. It was the narration I tell myself : I fell, my family were there for me when I literally cried for help and I am okay. Almost half a dozen time I fell, and I am still here. 

As Annie Murphy Paul said in her book The Extended Mind, that the stories we tell ourselves are accepted better in our brains through bodies, and out into the world, our surroundings, our environment. How we narrated and validated our misery calmly, without including a pity party in it, is important for our recovery. 

Telling each people your story of agony, over and over not only agonize some of them, but agonizing your mind with unnecessary relive of the trauma. Tell them once or twice, then let it rest. Let it be the mystery of misery. And oh, the tinnitus had slowly subside

Author: Fraya

A writer and entrepreneur with profound interest in humankind research and insights. An avid coffee drinker and book hoarder. Hours and days spent in Jakarta.

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