July 30, 2017
Sometimes a euphoric feeling washes over me and it takes my breath away. It just did. On my porch swing on this beautiful Sunday. Thus this little ditty.
It's happiness.
I'm so happy that I am scared something will come along and wreck it all. Because it has. It will. That's the nature of the beast. For now, I hold tightly to this chapter of life that doesn't hurt. Bits and pieces will always hurt, but it doesn't hurt through and through. It's wonderful, through and through. I can't believe it's real.
When I was a child I would use a thumbtack to make holes in the wall next to my bed at night. I don't know why I did it. But it was satisfying in some weird way. It gave me control, I think, when I felt I had none. I shared a room with my brother until our mother died. I was four. The wallpaper was colorful. I dug crevices into it as I listened to the "Dallas" theme song from the television in the living room.
When we moved in with her parents, there was no wall just next to the bed. Instead, Nanny left the closet light on and I would memorize the different brands of shoes in boxes in that closet. She had quite a lot of Selby pumps, as I recall. And each night Nanny would climb into bed beside me and kiss me good night with Mentholatum smeared above her upper lip. I would often take a hefty dose. I didn't care. Getting to room with my Nanny was worth every mouthful of Mentholatum I unwittingly consumed.
But after Nanny and I were no longer roomies, my twin bed again rested against a wall. Again, I would carve away into that wall. It helped me, somehow. You see, when my hands weren't busy, my mind would race. And I wondered what happiness felt like. I would hold my breath and pray that I would go to sleep and wake up in a different life. One where I was happy.
It wasn't anyone's fault. I was a mess. And disclaimer: I'm well aware that I had it pretty great. Even with a dead mother and a bad haircut, life could be considered pretty wonderfully rosy by all sorts of first, second and third world standards. I'm very aware. But I digress...
It's decades later. I don't have a heartbroken grandmother who bathes me in her own brand of affection each day, snoring loudly to my left. I haven't a wall carved by my confused childhood pain. Rather, I've somehow carved out a life that doesn't make me hold my breath until I gasp desperately and pray to wake up in another one.
It's become clear to me of late that a key component of my own happiness is that I am in its charge. The bane of my existence as a child was feeling controlled and lacking any sort of choice over the course of my day, my life. As I look back now with the razor sharp vision of hindsight, I see that every deep hurdle I have fought as an adult has borne that weight: being trapped. Feeling trapped. I cannot bear it. It is my Achilles heel.
As a parent, I have tried to follow the wisdom of a dear friend of mine, who advised to say yes to your children as much as possible. I see now, as I hold on so tightly to this happiness for which I've always longed, that I have tried as best I can and could to give my children control. Choices. I hope they feel it. Power is every bit as influential as powerlessness. I wish my babes to have the former.
I don't hold my breath anymore, praying for happiness. Instead, it is happiness that takes away my breath.
I hold on tight. I am so grateful that I have the chance to see life through this lovely, powerful lens, with deep breaths. Every day. Sometimes a euphoric feeling washes over me and it takes my breath away. It just did.
