The Problem With Joy

"I finally figured out the only reason to be alive is to enjoy it." Rita Mae Brown

Today I went to the Mount Gretna Art Show with my Mom, one of our ever-rarer girl's days out. And it struck me that the art that appealed to me most was the art that expressed a sense of joy. Invariably, the artists themselves seemed livelier, happier, than their dreary art making counterparts. One artist who created whimsical fused glass pieces, after I complemented her work, smiled and said, "I have the best job in the world." That wasn't just a line. She meant it.

I realized that I don't typically share my joy. The things that are most important to me and truly closest to my heart are hidden, kept safe where no one can harm them, or through them, me.

The problem with joy is that I'm afraid of it now. You see, the day of the accident was a really good day. The last really good day I've had. And now I'm afraid that if I'm happy again something else bad will happen.

The greater my happiness, the greater the smackdown I get from the universe, therefore, I can't allow myself to be happy or joyful, or, if I do, I certainly can't share it or even really admit it.

This is superbly twisted logic, I know. Still, I can't shake it.

The trouble with trauma is that once you've gone down that road and really experienced something bad, even the good stuff hurts. The good stuff hurts because it reminds you of what you missed, or what you don't have anymore, or is so fleeting it's like a little glimpse of the heaven you can't have and then you're right back where you started.

I don't want to be afraid to be happy. I don't want to be in pain all the time - physical, psychological or spiritual. I want to be able to share the joy I do have. It's in there...I just wish I were brave enough to admit it and let it out.