When someone gets good news I’m immediately happy for them; I point out all the positives and genuinely pray for the best for them. When I get good news, rather than apply the same treatment to my own circumstances I instead start to conjure up multiple reasons as to how this good news could, and will, go wrong.

Yesterday I was given the news that I’m being offered a completely different role in a bigger store. It is a massive step up, complete with an array of new challenges and skills to learn. From a development and progression point of view it is the next step for me. Was I happy at said offer? Yes, over the moon. However today I’m say rhyming off a plethora of reasons as to how it might go wrong – to the point I’m too scared to tell friends and family about it.

I have always been weary when I get good news simply because I don’t have much faith in my own existence, so I just assume I will somehow mess it up intentionally or not. Chances are I won’t, as I welcome this opportunity with open arms, but that doesn’t stop the ‘What If’ greatest hits playing constantly in my head. I guess self-doubt is part of my genetic makeup. Now, as an embittered critic of the world and my escapades through it I’m programmed to vomit all over any chance of possible happiness. It’ll go wrong. This will happen. That will happen. This and that will happen, then Take That will happen…

It is something I’ve learned to muzzle over the years, this negativity and self-doubt, but can you imagine how draining it is to constantly live in fear of happiness in case it once again gets snatched away from you? It’s a terrible mind set to cart around with you all day; really weighs you down. I envy young people; they are blissfully unaware of the crushing despair that awaits them as they venture further down the road to Adulthood.

Despite having a good thing going for me I continuously look at the past, and as such all I see is a myriad of disappointments, chasms of regrets, and that gnawing feeling of impending doom. I feel that I’m cursed to fail magnificently at whatever task or opportunity I’m faced with, so that’s why I try and keep myself grounded and not get overly excited about things. I literally just tiptoe through life like it’s a minefield, dodging blasts of happiness hurled at me with all the elegance and grace of a dog in high heels.

So rather that focus on the past, why can’t I allow myself to look forward and smile? To be happy? Probably because I’m destined to fail at everything; even being a snotfaced whiny twat is something I fail at. I was moaning yesterday about how much weight I’ve put on and then today I’ve had to start wearing XS because small was too baggy. I can’t even get fat properly. Oh, the sheer unrelenting horror of it all. I am stuck in a loveless relationship with myself. There’s no escape from my relentless criticism, to the point where I know what I’m thinking then have a go at myself for thinking it. How horribly solipsistic.

I am proud that I have this new opportunity. I am content with my body. I will not allow this illness to ruin another minute of my life. I will learn to be happy, even if it makes me miserable.


2 thoughts on “Happy.

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