Dead Children and Happiness

I am one of the most fucked up people I know. Seriously. The other night I woke up and saw dead children playing with a ball in my bedroom. Instead of wondering why there were dead children in my room, I just wanted to know where the hell they got the super ball.I’m also one of the happiest. And not even just on my manic days.

I have to work hard to be happy most days. Not because I don’t have what amounts to a pretty beautiful, if simple life, but becuase my chemical makeup is unbalanced in such a way that in the face of happy moments, my emotional wall acts as bitch ass reflector.

Happiness terrifies me, because generally speaking it means I’m about to take a radical nose dive into the hole. But God it’s so beautiful when it’s here.

 I love my home, my fiance…I have a generally supportive family. I am at peace. I watch people my age shuffle about, miserable, always wanting more than what they have, never being satisfied when they get it. They don’t have days where they develop tunnel vision, darkness surrounding on all sides, but they still aren’t happy. They want a better job, home, friends, everything. They don’t reach for it.
I have what I want and what I need. All i have to do is work to maintain it.
I’m thankful.

Sometimes I wish everyone would have one day, just one day where they fall into the pit. Not a day where they feel “sad” but a day when they honestly tumble down, and look up and see nothing but a long tunnel, walls covered in sharp stone that cuts when you try to climb. Then, the next day, I want them to wake up and be their normal selves. I want them to see how beautiful it is to just feel ok.

I’m so full of anger sometimes. I watch people walk along and talk about their lives and I wonder if their thoughts are ever as dark as mine.

But I’m also happy. I don’t know how that works.

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