I have been thinking about the last time I felt joyful.
Joy…noun : the emotion of great delight or happiness caused by something exceptionally good or satisfying; keen pleasure; elation.
To be honest, I don’t feel much euphoria these days. I suppose when I have just finished medicating myself, when the pain is at bay, I will experience a feeling of well-being for a short time. I can pretend that I am perfectly normal again. I long for that with every fiber of my being.
It’s a mock feeling of joyousness, but I take it gratefully.
I am aware of my blessings. I was truly thankful just the other day, as a matter of fact. My family is all still here with me. We had oodles of food. Shelter over my head, a warm bed to sleep in. Friends who love and support me. A loyal dog, who tries to keep me from leaving the house by sitting on my feet while I try to put on my socks and shoes.
The more I think about it, the more I am certain that experiencing pure joy becomes harder the older we get. Most of us become jaded and bitter, because let’s be realistic here; life’s a bitch. Each trauma and tragedy we endure takes us farther away from great delight.
I am poor as a church-mouse, but rich in love.
I am fragile and broken, but trying to mend.
I have people willing to help me sew.
I wake up each day now with the will to live.
I get to immerse myself on a daily basis with my first love, writing.
My daughter is a beautiful young adult.
I still know all the words to “Joy to the world.”
Maybe it is harder to find it, but not impossible.