I find it hard to allow myself to be happy. When that deep-in- your-chest peaceful happiness takes a hold of me, I enjoy it for only a short while before fear sets in and ruins it. Fear that my happiness will be false, short-lived, or end up hurting me in the long run. Guilt hits me, of ‘how dare I be happy when others are hurting’. I sink into the assumption that if I am happy, riding high on life, at peace, etc etc, that that only means that eventually I will crash. That I

I’m very good at pretending to be happy. I’ve spent my life masking pain, pretending disfunction doesn’t exist, covering up the wounds of trauma, and ultimately faking a persona of light and confidence. It’s a coping mechanism. It means I can hold a public job despite the fact that I have social anxiety. It means I shower, pay my bills, and show up to work on time even though I’ve struggled deeply with depression. It means I’ve done physical jobs while being in excruciating p

For a long time, I hated hugs. As a child, I hated being instructed to hug adults I didn’t know, I hated classmates greeting me with air-hugs that felt forced and fake, but I also didn’t even feel comfortable hugging my own family and close friends. It took me a while to realize it was because physical touch had been used as a form of control when I was a young child. My stepfather would use his hand on my shoulder at church to hold me still, a captive at the pressure of his