Monachopsis
๐ข๐ค๐ฃ๐๐๐๐ค๐ฅ๐จ๐๐จ
๐ฏ. ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ถ๐ฃ๐ต๐ญ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ต ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด๐ช๐ด๐ต๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต ๐ง๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ต ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ข๐ค๐ฆ, ๐ข๐ด ๐ฎ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ฅ๐ข๐ฑ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ด๐ถ๐ณ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ๐ด ๐ข๐ด ๐ข ๐ด๐ฆ๐ข๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ข ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ข๐ค๐ฉโ๐ญ๐ถ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ, ๐ค๐ญ๐ถ๐ฎ๐ด๐บ, ๐ฆ๐ข๐ด๐ช๐ญ๐บ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ด๐ต๐ณ๐ข๐ค๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ, ๐ฉ๐ถ๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ข๐ฏ๐บ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ฎ๐ช๐ด๐ง๐ช๐ต๐ด, ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ข๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐จ๐ฏ๐ช๐ป๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ช๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ข๐ณ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฃ๐ช๐ต๐ข๐ต, ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ช๐ค๐ฉ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถโ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ญ๐ถ๐ช๐ฅ๐ญ๐บ, ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ๐ช๐ข๐ฏ๐ต๐ญ๐บ, ๐ฆ๐ง๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ๐ต๐ญ๐ฆ๐ด๐ด๐ญ๐บ ๐ข๐ต ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ.
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.