The truth is.

The truth is, is that I’m not okay. I have found myself in the middle of a year-long pity party. If I am being honest, the party has gone on for decades. You know those people who are always smiling, that vibe high, that seem to be perpetually happy? Yea, I am not that person. I’d like to be that person or at least figure out what meds they’re on. Instead my face looks haggard. There isn’t enough botox in the world to hide the toll of the sadness and stress. My mind is always instigating a story of lack, when it’s supposed to be enjoying the moment. Last night I asked my sweet, generally upbeat hubby “what is wrong with me, why can’t I be happy, how do I get happy?”

Yesterday was his birthday. I went through the “trouble” of making a dessert he said he liked, one that I had never made before and one that kind of scared me. I made it. Also, because I am me, I probably grumbled the whole time. I am guessing if Glenn got to pick between New Orleans-style beignets or a more pleasant wife, he’d pick the latter. When it came time to sing HBD, the kids were bickering and whining. I snapped, instantly regretted it, felt sorry for myself, vowed to do better-have more patience, smile, and try to be nicer to my family. I looked in the mirror, I look miserable. My jaw was tight, brow furrowed, ready to lose it at any moment. Should I be medicated? Should I spend more time in therapy? Should I pray more? Should I start a gratitude journal? Is there some sort of group for unhappy, grief-ridden housewives who just lost both their parents, found out about a half-sibling, decided to homeschool their kids while fighting an estate battle with their family members, who got COVID for Christmas (literally)? Good Lord, is there a way I can stop the my tragedy is bigger than your tragedy bs because that makes for a really crappy friend? People are sick of me. I am sick of me.

How do happy people get happy? Is it simply a choice? I know people who have had so much difficulty and loss in their lives yet still whistle a tune while prepping dinner. Whistling, that’s the true sign of a joyful soul (said with an annoyed, pessimistic eye-roll 🙄)

I think people that have wounds are far more interesting. I am more comfortable around people who have lived through some shit than those who have lived fully charmed lives. When my Mom re-married someone I perceived to be wealthy, I thought that our single-Mom, latch-key daughter drama would be over. However each season became more difficult and presented more challenges. Again, there is a sick part of me that has reveled in all the messiness. It’s like it gives me the right to be unpleasant to the ones I love the most.

Instead of celebrating, I mean really celebrating my husband’s birthday, I made it about me and my never-ending issues. It’s part of my cycle. Part of my story. Sure I can usually pull it together in public and play the strong resilient woman role that I have pretty much perfected, but inside I wear my scars like badges of honor. More hurt equals more fuel into my bitterness regime. Another parental death gives me a reason to wear that pissed off face I wear daily. Yes, this past year has sucked. Now I guess it’s up to me and the power of my faith to change the story around this new year.

Do I really get to decide between a birthday party or a pity party? Truth is, I don’t know. I am way to much of a cynic to declare that I am going to be happy in 2021, but I can proclaim that I will *try* to smile more. I tested the smiling thing out this morning on my family and Gus asked what was wrong with my face…off to a great start…