So Much Easier to Hurt

I'm realizing that when I plan to write for an audience, I am much less inclined to write at all. Initially, I thought that I kind of chicken out from writing for people. I feel as though I put so much energy into my writitng, and then I worry that it's boring, or rude, or pointless and that nobody will want to read it anyway, so why bother?

But really. I think the truth of the matter is that when I write, I face my demons. And I'm scared shitless to let this half-formed part of myself out into the open. It's so easy for me to rant about people who piss me off or how depressed I am. I am so much more comfortable in the dark places than I am being happy, and I don't know how to express myself when I'm not hurting.

My anger is like a sharply honed knife, always ready, always strong, always a threat. And that's simple, because when I feel it, I lay my hands on the computer and the rage flows without any effort at all. But when I feel happy and content in my life I don't know how to express it. I feel like a stumbling toddler, trying to figure out how to walk for the first time, jerkily slapping words together until there is some semblance of a coherent thought, but not quite.

When I re-read my tirades, I can feel instantly how emotionally charged the words are, poised and ready to engulf my emotional self again. But my expressions of joy are dripping in euphamisms and cliched phrases that could have been pulled from any high school text book. I don't know how to convey the nuanced differences between joy and happiness, not like I can drown myself in the overwhelmingly varied expressions of hurt and depression that I am so familiar with.

How sad is that? That I can't express a positive emotion. That my emotional repertoire in general is limited to that which is negative. I don't know how I got like this, or where in life I learned to be so angry, and somehow missed the lesson on how to express contentment.

Because I am content a lot. Holding Taryn in my arms as she drifts off to sleep, or laughing with her as she sings me a baby-song while we walk the dogs. Curled up in bed on a Sunday morning with a cup of coffe in one hand, a book in the other, and the dogs lounging across my feet. Taking a stroll on a crisp Wednesday morning, scooping poop before most people hit the snooze button, or luxuriating in a steaming hot shower.

I try to take pleasure in the little things. I've faced enough disappointment in my life to savor those things that go right, to try to pull the positive from every fucked up situation... I just don't know how to convey that I like my life. I am happy with my routine and my friends and I'm not looking for more anymore. So I guess that is contentment? I really am not sure.