I have this fear, now that I am not a person defined by tragedy and depression, that if I let sadness and disappointment show it will somehow invalidate everything I’ve ever said about life being good.
As if everyone will suddenly turn to me and say “Aha! I knew you were just blowing sunshine up our asses! See, life is pain and it never really gets better.”
And I will hang my head and say nothing because I don’t have the strength or the moral authority to do otherwise.
“See,” they will say, “it was just a phase. Just hormones. Your happiness isn’t real.”
And next time I say that every moment is a gift they’ll just nod and smile and disregard me.
I don’t know how rational this fear is. Probably not at all.
Comes of being a cynic, and associating with cynics, I suppose.
The thing is I know I will have joy again. It’s only a matter of time. For now I am allowing myself to feel unhappiness. Or to wallow, if you prefer.
I want to say “this is not me” but it really is. And so is this.
“–call it the shadow of myself…”