Happy

On Monday I had been married for 8381 days and I walked on the beach with my husband. We had dinner at the Sanitary Fish Market. We sat outside and watched the boats go by. We laughed so much. 

 

We came home to our puppy, who isn't really a puppy anymore. She ate her dinner and curled up next to us on the couch, safe and secure in our love for her, in her place in our home and in our hearts.

 

It was a good day.

 

Later that night, lying in bed watching the X-files I had the most powerful feeling come over me and I looked at Jason and said, "Jason. I'm really happy."

"Good!"

I took a long breath before I said, "Jason. I'm really afraid to be happy."

 

The last day I was really happy was February 16th, 2022. Specifically, the morning of February 16th, 2022. 

I went to Bootcamp early that morning and took a picture of myself in the big mirrors by the back wall. I had been working so hard for so long. Avoiding all the cake that I still love very much. Lifting all the heavy things and putting them back down. Over and over, again and again. I was feeling happy with my body that day, and that feeling was very foreign to me. I liked it though, I embraced it.

My kids were doing well. My marriage was doing well. I loved my job. I was making strides in my own healing. I had friends.  

I had a brother.

 

Then I didn't have a brother.

 

For so many dark, dark days I tried to make sense of what happened that morning. I can't. I don't think I'll ever be able to. All I know is that I was happy and within moments I was immeasurably, unbelievably sad. 

 

I guess I probably, subconsciously, thought that it was my fault. My punishment for being happy. How dare I have such joy, such love, when he was hurting and suffering so much? 

I know that's not logical.

 

Yet.

 

I think it was somehow logical.

 

So I said the words out loud. 

 

I said all of this out loud.

 

Jason listened, as he always does. 

Then he said, "You've already said it though. You said you are happy. That's real. You get to be happy."

 I didn't say anything.

So he said, "Stephanie. It's okay to be happy."

 

I am. 

 

I am happy. 

 

Nothing exploded. Nothing caught on fire. Nothing tragic occurred. I just get to be happy.

 

Life will never be perfect. As long as I live there will be parts of me that are sad that my brother is gone and sadder still about the way he left. Work will never be perfect. My children are amazing, but they will have heartache and a mother is only ever as happy as her saddest child. My dog will get old and someday she will meet Ginger and together they'll wait for me. I will lose people in various ways and I will have to consciously, consistently work to keep myself intact.  

 

It's never easy. It won't ever, ever be easy.

 

But I'm happy. And that's okay.