I'm staring at my book, watching the words and lines blur. It used to be that I was happy always. It used to be that I could pretend to be happy. It used to be that I would escape with my books of fairy tales, of heroes who were strong and true, of heroines who used their cunning to solve problems. I used to believe in them.
It used to be I could dance to the music in my head and hum or sing some song I woke up to. I've stopped singing lately. It used to be that I knew I had someone to love me, somewhere. That I knew that and didn't worry that I might not meet my soul mate. It used to be that I could feel things, the pain of a scrape or cut. Now I watch the blood drip and wonder when it happened. It used to be that I could look at the sunset and marvel at the beauty of it. It used to be that I could walk in the midst of a summer storm and relish the humidity warming my bare feet and feel tickled by the water trickling down my back.
It used to be that I felt loved. I used to be that I knew what love was. It used to be that I didn't cry every night. It used to be that I knew what happiness was, when my only concern was the prayer that someday I'd become beautiful. It used to be that I loved everyone I knew. It used to that I knew the world would be better because I would make it better.
It used to be that I had hope. It used to be that I would sit amongst my family and feel a part of them.
What used to be hasn't been for many years now. Every summer we go up to New York and I find myself going off alone to cry because I don't know how to be happy. When did I stop knowing how?
What does being human mean? Caring? Loving? Being happy?
And what does it mean that I have a cut on my palm from where I took a scalpel because I was bored. And what does it mean that I now have a cup of my blood where I watched the cut drip for hours before finally closing? And what does it mean that it didn't hurt when I cut myself?
My father recently told me that I had the highest pain tolerance of anyone he knew. He meant it has a compliment because I had stepped on a piece of glass and it had cut threw my foot thoroughly enough that I had left a blood trail around the house, and I had managed to not notice.
Why is it I can't be happy? Be content? I have everything most people wish for: Friends who care about me; Family who, while not being perfect, need me; Respect from my teachers, the ability to make decisions for myself.
She says that if I worked at it I could be happy. She says I could deal with normal society. That my being intelligent might not be a good thing, because I know something's wrong, but I'm not sure what. Because I act like an adult, think like an adult, feel like an adult, hurt like an adult.
She says that I'm the 35 year-old professional woman, who is faced with being fired and having no skills no abilities and nothing going for me, tries to find love, and realizes that I'm incapable of it.
What makes it possible for someone to love? Having a happy childhood? Knowing how to be happy, being content with yourself.
Sarah once asked why I cry after weddings, I told her it was because I was jealous of the bride and because I could only hope that someday I would know what it felt like to be her.
She told me not to worry, that everyone has a soul mate. But what happens when you're not sure you'll ever meet him? Not sure that if you did, you would even deserve him. And if you did deserve him, be able to love him. And were able to love him, make him love you, and if make him love you, be happy?
So the question here is, is there anything in my life that makes me happy? The answer: What does happy mean?
