In Literature class last semester, I learned a word that I can identify with more than any other I have ever known: “ennui”. The word is of French origin and, unfortunately, there is no English equivalent. The closest word in the English language is “boredom”; ennui, however, is so much more than that. Ennui, in the context in which I learned it, is boredom with life itself, to the point of world-weariness and even soul-crushing unhappiness. “Ennui” is the shortest summary that I could give of what I feel. I know I have my obligations, and I know you love me, and I know that you’ve given me all that you possibly can, but I’m not happy. This is not happiness; this is not even merciful indifference. I am cursed by an affliction of the soul.
I’m sure that you would never understand. Even if you would, to know would be painful for you. I know that this feeling that possesses me will lead me away from you one day, but, until then- that precious, bittersweet day when I again begin to feel alive- I want you to live in ignorant bliss.
I hate myself for accepting that I will most likely abandon you one day. I’ll miss you… but I need a new life. I will never be happy being the settled woman that you want me to someday be. I’m not even excited about my life as a relatively free student- how in the world could I feel anything but trapped beneath the weight of an infant? I know not what I will find in the world to make me feel alive again, but it must be out there somewhere. When I find it, then perhaps I may be able to come home.
I’m sorry that I can’t be happy with the life that you so generously gave me. I really, truly am.