I don’t write happy things.
I realized that today, while I was trying to think up something to blog about for Monday. Sunday afternoon is when I usually get that done these days, by which I mean Sunday afternoon is usually when I remember, in a panic, “Oh no, I have to post a blog tomorrow!” But while I was pondering what to blog about this week, I realized something.
I don’t blog about happy things.
Oh, I’ve posted a good update here and there, and, no, my life isn’t terrible, but I don’t recall ever writing a really happy blog post. The inspiring kind that reminds you that there’s hope and it all works out if you stick with it. The uplifting kind that tells you if you’d only look up every now and then you’d realize there’s so much to live for.
I don’t think I’ve ever written a post like that. I’ve written about anxiety, about depression, about not knowing, about striving, about worry, about fear, about all the things it means to struggle, but I’ve never written what happens after, when all that is done, when you’ve made it out of the press and you can, finally, breathe again.
I didn’t start this blog to be a downer, to be my little corner to whine about life, and I’m not convinced it’s become that, but I do wonder sometimes. If I weren’t me, if I were a reader and I read what I write every week, would that make me feel better or worse?
The thing is I know why it’s like this, why I only write about the one thing and not the other. Because I always want to be honest, I always want to write what I feel in the moment, not what I’d like to be feeling, what I am, not how I’d like people to see me. Blogging is a very special form of writing for me. It’s a way to vent but also to grow. It’s a challenge I’ve taken up for close to a year and a half now to find something to write about every week, to never believe the excuse that there just isn’t anything worth putting down in words.
It’s a challenge I’ve succeeded at, but the payoff of writing how I feel is that, at least when it comes to actually writing it down, I very rarely seem to feel “happy”. There are things that excite me, of course, possibilities. I have hope. But I don’t have happiness, at least not the kind I think I should have.
And I’m tempted to lay the blame on that: my expectation. Maybe it’s not so much that I’m failing some important mark of emotional maturity but that I’m failing some imagined mark of emotional maturity. There’s no law that I have to make this place anything else that what it has naturally become, darkness and all.
Or maybe I’m just not there yet.
It’s felt a lot like Spring lately. It is Spring, of course, but it’s felt like more than that. This season has felt like a Season. More than a time of year but a time of life. Of expectation, anticipation, after a dark, cold, hard season. There’s a feeling that things are blooming after lots of time and effort and suffering. And not just for me.
Nikki of Fables & Fauna is publishing her first book, and she hit 100% funding on her Kickstarter over the weekend!
HB’s is near a major milestone in book 2, and you have no idea how long a road that has been.
My Dad’s retiring. My parents are moving. My sister’s getting married. And moving. My brother and his family are raising money so they can, yes, move.
Everything, and everyone, seems to be moving, but in a positive way.
It feels like Spring, like things in bloom, coming to fruition after so much waiting.
And seeing it happen for so many is making me more hopeful that it might happen for me, that I myself might be on the cusp of something truly great, though I can’t quite see it yet.
That’s a good place to be in, but I’m not quite there yet. There are days it’s harder to believe than others. But I’m finding I can believe. I’m finding I can have faith that all of this, every bit of waiting, of striving and starving and wondering what’s the point, of everything I’ve written and everything I was too afraid to write, that it’s all going to be for something. Something that has taken its time getting here but, nevertheless, is almost at the door.
I don’t know; it seems worth a try.
I swear, I never want to be a downer. I never want to be the kind of person who can’t get out of the cycle of self-pity. I want to be hopeful. I want to be able to say that good things are coming, in all sincerity, and believe it.
But I’m learning, I have been learning all this time, that hope is sometimes a four-letter word. It’s a lot harder than we think. And if you’re going to write about what it’s like stuck in the middle, then it’s not going to be very sunny. That’s just reality.
But there’s something useful in that, something beautiful, something that maybe, just maybe, might be inspiring to someone else who’s also in the middle.
And that I’m willing to work for. That I’m willing to write for.
I hope you’re willing to read it.