hating myself got boring

grabbing happiness with greedy hands

It’s April, meaning it’s officially spring, which is ironic since it’s currently snowing. A fact I’m meant not to dwell on, despite what its implications suggest (what is climate change for 500!). Lately, I’ve been avoiding writing the way I avoid everything else—with unflinching intensity.

Last year, I made a big fuss about breaking my bad habit of only writing while trapped in the pits of sadness and despair. I told myself, and you, dearest reader, that I wouldn’t let my notebooks—and this blog—become an archive of pain. That I would learn to capture joy, even when it feels muted next to my sorrow. I’m aware, of course, this twisted comparison is partly due to the fact that I’ve become addicted to the dizzying highs and lows that come from indulging in the never-ending drama of my inner warfare.

That said, it hasn’t been easy—learning to sit with happiness, to revel in it. Sometimes I forget that joy isn’t my natural state, that I’ve grown far too comfortable in the chaos of always being on edge. On the edge of what? Who knows—misery, abandonment, perturbation? All of the above?

Anyway, these are old musings. Truthfully, being sad got boring. Mundane. Predictable. It lost its thrill. I realised I preferred bitterness in my drinks, not my heart.

It’s time for a walk down memory lane…

Spring offers us a chance at rebirth. Have you gotten tired of me proclaiming that? Have you grown tired of my ceaseless reminders to enjoy life in all its fleetingness? Don’t worry, I annoy myself as much as I’m sure I annoy you. Though I hope you find my ramblings endearing. Earnest. I certainly do. Not that I should admit to finding myself amusing. I fear I’ll come off narcissistic. Or worse, lame. Whatever. Dismissing myself feels much lamer. Besides, I’ve already done the whole self-loathing-lookinthemirrorandhatethepersonlookingbackatyou-thing. Which, for the record, I nailed. My mother always told me I’d excel in whatever I chose to pursue, so of course, I excelled in self-hatred. Passed with flying colours. A++ baby.

I said it got boring, not that I wasn’t good at it.

Knowing when to move on is a skill. One that most people don’t learn until it's far too late. Over the last year or so, I’ve discovered that it’s quite radical to accept yourself. To love yourself, flaws and all. It took many self-tortuous moves to arrive here, as I imagine any big revelation does. Growth thrives under pressure; it never blooms in the safety of comfort. You can’t dance or drink or smoke yourself out of a slump, trust me, I’ve tried.

Off-topic

I don’t believe in God. Though I do enjoy the idea of her: an all-knowing being, eternally divine and just. Sometimes I wish I had a faith to nestle into at the end of a long day. I tried once, to find faith: it was a snowy night, I had had one too many shots of tequila, and my open-toed heels had frozen my feet to the point that the sting of my fresh blisters no longer bothered me. Nothing monumental occurred that night. At least nothing I remember—memory is a fickle thing. Yet when I finally arrived home, I fell to my knees and attempted to pray. My prayer fell flat, having found myself unsure of what exactly to pray for. I didn’t care to ask for forgiveness, or sanity, or even love. Maybe what I was looking for was company, to feel the presence of another beside me for just a moment, to escape the beats of loneliness that incessantly pulsed inside me.

It’s funny how difficult allowing yourself to be happy is. How humourous it is to be confident that you’re entirely “healed”. How easy it is to convince yourself you’ll never again waver on steady ground. It’s no surprise that I continue to struggle to find the words to describe what happiness feels like.

The closest I’ve gotten is this:

it feels a lot like rubbing your aching cheeks after spending an entire night laughing with strangers; like the rest of the world fading away as you focus on your lover’s fingertips absent-mindedly tracing up and down your forearm; like finishing your last sip of wine as your friends talk an octave too loud in a fancy restaurant and none of you can stop smiling.

Maybe I’ve always found pain easier to describe because I constantly allow myself to sit and dwell in it. I let it brew a fire deep in my stomach, bubbling up only to get caught in my throat as I retreat into a ball on my floor, silently weeping until I eventually drift to sleep, puffy and exhausted. Happiness is harder to pinpoint. Whenever I feel it, I let it consume me, totally and completely. I let it warm my body like the sun does on a hot July day, enveloping me in a hug that tugs on my heart strings. The joy escapes me in fits of laughter and childlike awe. By the time it’s come and gone, I’ve barely registered its existence—too caught up in the moment to remember.

Yet, I’ve always found it easier to find solace in pain rather than happiness. I’m working on that.

Well anyway. Consider this a check-in—a break from our regularly scheduled programming—to tell you I’m happy.

Right now, sitting in my room with my cat, tapping away on my laptop, listening to icy rain hurl itself against my window—in this moment, I am happy. And for once, I’m writing about it without worrying if it sounds good or polished or clever.

Thanks for sharing this moment with me, here's to many more xx