I'm sitting here in the quiet surrounded by a half lit/half dark room. It's been another day of me sitting on the couch watching YouTube videos and Netflix bingeing. It's not unusual behavior...in fact...it's becoming the new norm in my life. The safety and quietness of my house contains my tears and pain without the questions or strange looks or the need to pretend.
This weekend I've had to pick myself up and push myself out the door with the desire to not miss the time offered to me by a friend. And on Monday night I gathered up the strength, slapped a smile on my face, pushed down the pain and went out to celebrate a dear friends birthday, but even up until all those moments I was wrapped up in blankets in the dark.
I don't feel happy.
Yet, when I post on Facebook or Instagram I look happy...and truth be told in those captured moments I was as close to happiness as I could possibly be.
I look at my face in the pictures from Monday and this weekend and good god, I look so happy. I want to run back and just sit in those moments forever. I even cried last night about how I just wish "I could be happy again."
I remember what true happiness feels like...it's just been a really, really, really long time since I have felt that deep in my bones. It's weird to me that I can feel some happiness...a temporary happiness and then as quickly as it was there it suddenly disappears again. Small moments that I make sure to snap a picture of so I can look back and puzzle over the smile that desperately is trying to mask the overwhelming pain I feel.
I wonder how it looks to other people who might know all or some of the pain I'm going through. Does it puzzle them that I can write/cry/isolate myself, but suddenly show up in a picture looking full of life and happiness? I feel conflicted between hiding forever in this darkness and not wanting to miss the life events of other's around me. Goddammit. I feel shame for looking/feeling happy and then coming home and stripping my clothes and mask off and falling into a depressed heap on the couch.
I lied about how happy I was. Or did I? Fuck if I know what's what anymore.
Am I happy? No.
Was I temporarily happy in those moments? Yes.
Why should I give a crap about what other's think? Because I'm afraid.
I just want to be happy again and not have this pain touch every part of my heart. I want to look at events and pictures and know that I was really truly happy in those moments and that I came home feeling elated and refreshed. I want to not push down the pain in a desperate attempt to show up as fun, carefree Mal so that no one is made uncomfortable by me or because of the feeling that if I miss showing up to this then I'll never get the moment back again.
Does this even make any sense?!
Screw it. It's back to Netflix for me...
