My Brand of Happy

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Another month has jumped on the wings of a soaring eagle and flown past our rushed lives. Our lives that’s riddled with our own cemented version of living. A month of calculated normalcy sewn into situated excitement has been breathed into fruition and settled among the stars in the sky.

Yet we are no closer to happiness. Or, at least, not the happiness we’re told to believe in by a construct that perpetuates anything out of secular happiness as erroneous.

We’re not happy. I’m not happy.

At least, not in the way society wants me to be.

I don’t smile genuinely at every random stranger that passes by.

I don’t shout with joy when my loved ones come home from a difficult day.

I don’t laugh at things I “should” laugh at.

I don’t grin when I see two old folks holding hands.

I don’t run with glee at the sight of my significant other.

My eyes don’t sparkle when I receive a compliment.

By all mainstream accounts, I look sad, miserable, and despondent.

And by some accounts, I am those things. And that’s okay.

Emotions are okay! Wait, no, they’re beautiful, genuine, and true.

And, I am sad. I am miserable. I am despondent.

But…

I’m also happy. I am enthralled. I am joyous.

Just not in the way the no-faces of society want me to be.

My cherub cheeks deepen with a rosy hue when I am enraptured with happiness upon seeing one of my children standing up for the marginalized.

I play with a violet-colored tendril that has escaped the confines of a too-tight bun on a humid August day in zeal when I watch two squirrels chase one another up a wooden electric pole.

I chew on my poorly painted pinky as I observe in admiration someone whom I adore do something brave and fearlessly.

But, no, I am not happy.

When no one is watching I reveal a full-on geeky smile, grasping my bottom lip between my teeth as I catch a magnificent sunset with my tired eyes which gives me happiness tremors that renders me useless for several minutes.

In the silence of an early morning commune with a sleepy nine-year-old autistic boy, I kiss his forehead gently as he cuddles closer to my soft body. He cups my cheeks and gently whispers, “you’re my favorite” with his warm, little boy breath. In the darkness, a small tear escapes my right eye and gently hits his cornflower blonde hair as he drifts back to sleep.

This is happiness, personified.

It may not be a brand of happiness the emotion police will accept, but it’s my brand of happiness.

It’s my happiness.

Mine.

 

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