The day should have been an occasion to celebrate. I had reached a milestone in a creative endeavor. A goal had been accomplished. A project (that I loooooved) had been created and announced publicly (yay!). And yet, while my mind held a logical “knowing” of the happiness available to me at the moment, my body was having trouble accessing it.
“How does it feel?” My husband asked with an upbeat flare. I could hear the anticipation in his question. He expected me to share the joy1 with him. Instead, I told him that I knew this should be exciting and celebratory, but for some reason, I couldn’t get there. In fact, I felt sad, scared, and even lonely.
This is not the first time I’ve felt disconnected from happiness or any other feel-good emotion. (And maybe you can relate).
Experiencing joy after living through a tragic loss or enduring a traumatic moment (or moments) is difficult. In some ways, happiness doesn’t feel like a trustworthy emotion; it feels dangerous. In moments of joy, it was as though I’d extend my hand to touch it, and either it would pull itself away or close on me like a clam shell, or I would pull my own hand away as though I might be burned by its flame. (Was I scared of it, or was it scared of me? Either way, we weren’t connecting.)
Recovering joy has been a part of my healing journey. (If you can identify it as a part of yours, this prompt is for you.)
Let me share another related story…
When I signed with a literary agent last fall and started receiving interest from some publishers, this new chapter of my story, one in which I’m living out some of my dreams, thrust me into a state of sheer panic. The panic perplexed me. Shouldn’t I feel overjoyed that a possibility, that this dream, could actually become a reality? Instead, I was terrified of the idea that it might actually work out.
Here’s another one…
I recently opened a window into my anxiety to enlighten my husband about just how much it’s been impacting me lately. Let’s say he’s out of town on a work trip, and I’m solo-parenting (which is often the case). I become terrified to leave the house and drive anywhere. I am full of overwhelming anxiety that I will be in a car accident, injured or killed, leaving our kids alone and scared. Every. single. time. I click my seat belt and drive these intrusive thoughts fill my mind and hijack my body.
Who would be there to help our kids in a crisis? This question has haunted me for over a decade. It happened every time the Army relocated us, every time my husband deployed, every time we found ourselves in a new place and far from family or friends.
Even though we’ve lived in California for a few years now, anxiety still prevents me from driving myself to the beach or even to the store when my husband is out of town. I inevitably trap myself in the house, only driving when absolutely needed.
I have played out all the scenarios and even played out the fears. I’ve logically navigated them and taken practical steps to assuage them, preparing for those unexpected scenarios. And yet, my anxiety will still hijack my imagination to some frightening places.