On Thursday afternoon, I wrote, “I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time, and I’m getting better every day.”
I’m not sure why I wrote that. It was a lie. I knew it the second I wrote it. But I wanted so much to believe that I was happy, and that I will be even happier soon. I wanted to make it true. Like those days I’m feeling the shittiest inwardly so I try to look my best outwardly, as if a pretty dress and coiffed hair will fix everything. As if I look the part, I’ll feel the part also.
Successful. Content. Put-together. Maintained. Motivated. Directed. Optimistic.
Empirically, I thought it should be true. I should be happy. There are a lot of places to find happiness, and if I looked there, I should be happy. But in reality, it is very, very far from the truth.
On Thursday night, I broke down. Turns out trying to convince myself to be happy doesn’t really work. Also, is exhausting. And may cause terrifying crying spells. I didn’t know where to put my eyes. No place I put my eyes could make things better. Even closing them couldn’t make things better. I was standing in my breakfast nook with unfocused, burned eyes, hands at my sides, head down, and nothing could make it better. Not the tears dripping from my chin. Not Cautionary Husband’s hands on either side of my head.
I’m not okay, and I’m just now realizing it.