“I am sad” sounds so silly. It sounds, so much, like a grown up with a paper cut, crying out for bandages. It sounds like that kid who cried wolf —except, being eaten alive might’ve hurt much less.
“I am sad” makes me sound like an imposter. Like if I could say it, then I couldn’t possibly mean it. Like talking about it means I couldn’t really be all that sad. Like I must endure in an unspoken oath of silence. As if I needed to prove my melancholic state. As if it’s perfectly acceptable for a complete stranger to sweep right in and pass judgement on how and why I feel what I feel.
“I am sad” sounds so infantile, so insincere, so repulsively desperate. But it also sounds a whole lot like three honest words I would never dare utter.