My father asked when I would start writing about happy things. Because enough time has passed, right? Because I've been doing so many fun and joyful things, right? Because I'm happy now, right?
I'm still trying very, very hard to write when I am happy. Right now, I'm writing from a place that is sad about the fact that I often don't write when I am happy. I'm writing from a place that knows what it means if I write out my happiness. The truth is I'm terrified. As if writing about happy things would be an awful and instantaneous jinx. And on the other hand, being connected to my sadness is being connected to him. I'm scared to let him go too. I still don't want to. Despite my numerous pep talks with myself, I know I'm still leaving the door open a crack for him. As time rolls by, it seems more and more like a disservice to myself to not fully close that door.
Talks of joy for the future leads me to think of joy in the past. I remember the joy I felt with him... Sometimes so viscerally that I need to shake and shrug the thought away because I WILL feel it again and then have to coax myself back into consciousness only to find myself flung back into a reality where that type of joy doesn't exist for me right now. It's in those moments I want to stay, I want to stay with him. That's the only way I can be with him. I don't feel ready to wake up. To never have him there again. That place, with him, still feels like home. It still feels safe and loving and just perfect for me. Even though it doesn't exist anywhere else but in my mind and memories.
I suppose I'll write about something objectively happy when I don't allow sadness to put me in a chokehold. I know I lean into it. I know it's almost masturbatory at this point. I write sad things not because I feel sad or that I'm always sad. It's how my writing practice developed and what I'm most well-versed in. And while I am rediscovering my talents and passions and confidence, I write about what is comfortable for me to write about, something I know I won't fail at or people won't relate to.
Alternately, I live my happiness, I am so present in my happiness that I oftentimes forget to write. Reflection upon happiness is hard because it is not a language I'm fluent in. When I begin to write of joy and bliss, the flow falter and my words are crude and painfully simple. I don't feel like the feelings have been fully expressed or captured by my words so I stop mid-thought, mid-sentence. I put down my pen or close my laptop. And then I begin to question if I was really happy then - i it was genuine emotion. Because if it was then why can't I write about it. Im supposed to be good with emotions and expressing them. Then ultimately, I don't try to write when I'm happy because I'm so terrified of invalidating and questioning my own feelings. It's easier not to write and have that lens of pressure. Sadness accompanies writing well because the pressure of perfectionism is outshined by the need to relieve my own heaviness. When writing about happiness, it becomes a classic battle of good vs evil, light and dark. I realize I must fight. I must fight for all parts of myself to be seen and loved and spoken for as they wish to be. And to use my gift of sharing (that is what writing is), to share that it is indeed possible to allow yourself to be all things. Or even just to allow yourself to be different to the person you were a decade ago, a month ago, yesterday. You deserve it.
Happy things to come x
I'm still trying very, very hard to write when I am happy. Right now, I'm writing from a place that is sad about the fact that I often don't write when I am happy. I'm writing from a place that knows what it means if I write out my happiness. The truth is I'm terrified. As if writing about happy things would be an awful and instantaneous jinx. And on the other hand, being connected to my sadness is being connected to him. I'm scared to let him go too. I still don't want to. Despite my numerous pep talks with myself, I know I'm still leaving the door open a crack for him. As time rolls by, it seems more and more like a disservice to myself to not fully close that door.
Talks of joy for the future leads me to think of joy in the past. I remember the joy I felt with him... Sometimes so viscerally that I need to shake and shrug the thought away because I WILL feel it again and then have to coax myself back into consciousness only to find myself flung back into a reality where that type of joy doesn't exist for me right now. It's in those moments I want to stay, I want to stay with him. That's the only way I can be with him. I don't feel ready to wake up. To never have him there again. That place, with him, still feels like home. It still feels safe and loving and just perfect for me. Even though it doesn't exist anywhere else but in my mind and memories.
I suppose I'll write about something objectively happy when I don't allow sadness to put me in a chokehold. I know I lean into it. I know it's almost masturbatory at this point. I write sad things not because I feel sad or that I'm always sad. It's how my writing practice developed and what I'm most well-versed in. And while I am rediscovering my talents and passions and confidence, I write about what is comfortable for me to write about, something I know I won't fail at or people won't relate to.
Alternately, I live my happiness, I am so present in my happiness that I oftentimes forget to write. Reflection upon happiness is hard because it is not a language I'm fluent in. When I begin to write of joy and bliss, the flow falter and my words are crude and painfully simple. I don't feel like the feelings have been fully expressed or captured by my words so I stop mid-thought, mid-sentence. I put down my pen or close my laptop. And then I begin to question if I was really happy then - i it was genuine emotion. Because if it was then why can't I write about it. Im supposed to be good with emotions and expressing them. Then ultimately, I don't try to write when I'm happy because I'm so terrified of invalidating and questioning my own feelings. It's easier not to write and have that lens of pressure. Sadness accompanies writing well because the pressure of perfectionism is outshined by the need to relieve my own heaviness. When writing about happiness, it becomes a classic battle of good vs evil, light and dark. I realize I must fight. I must fight for all parts of myself to be seen and loved and spoken for as they wish to be. And to use my gift of sharing (that is what writing is), to share that it is indeed possible to allow yourself to be all things. Or even just to allow yourself to be different to the person you were a decade ago, a month ago, yesterday. You deserve it.
Happy things to come x
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