Monachopsis
𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨
𝘯. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩—𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘴𝘺, 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘵𝘴, 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵, 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘭𝘺, 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.
Source: Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
Two years ago on this day, June 8th, I received the results of a DNA test that would confirm a doubt I always had, just never fully confronted.
As I've written before, on that day, two of my families died. The one that raised me turned out to be a sham, and the one that did not remains an enigma.
A few days ago, I came across this word, monachopsis. It is a made-up word whose definition resonated with me. For 34 years, I lived in monachopsis.
For 34 years, I knew I did not fit in with the family I was raised in. The family I was told I belonged to. And every day that "persistent feeling of being out of place" has followed me.
Eleven of those years, I lived in India. For eleven years, I walked past a countless number of people.
Of all those people, who among them could I have been related to?
Of all the places I went to while living there, how many of those could have been my "intended habitat"?
Of all the roads travelled, which one of those could have taken me to where I would be "effortlessly at home"?
It's one thing to feel out of place, but it's entirely different to feel it, and fail to recognize why. To be constantly gaslit into believing that there was nothing out of place.
And two years ago I finally found out why. The evidence was so clear, it could no longer be ignored.
