Becoming, Lucy

I’m currently going through a period of big change in my life and with it there’s a quiet hope – a hope for happiness. Which is weird. Because I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad and I’m not sure if I want to know the happy version of me.

I would say I am a stranger to happiness, the word feels foreign on my tongue. I only ever remember sadness – I was diagnosed with depression at 14 and I don’t remember much of my life pre-16 – I don’t know who I am if I’m not fighting.

I like this version of me, the one who thinks too much, spirals too quickly, writes for hours about a shadow that dimmed the moon, loses herself in lyrics and their meanings. The one who laughs loudly at dark humour, who finds beauty in the small things. The sadness can be lonely, but with it comes a unique perspective.

If I’m not sad, then what do I have?

I think I know what it is to be content, but nothing more.

But why would I hope for happiness if I like the sadness? Do I hope for ‘normal’? Whatever normal is? Maybe I hope for a break from the spirals, the overthinking, the drowning in my emotions until I write them out – maybe I hope to breathe for just a second without the weight of the world pressing on my ribs.

But sadness feels like the only thing that is keeping me together. Living in this space for so long has meant these are the pillars of who I am and if I remove them then will I collapse within myself with nothing to hold me up?

If I lose those pillars then would I lose my depth? Would I lose my sense of self? If I take away the sadness, I no longer have an excuse.

Fuck.

If I lose the sadness, I stay profound, I stay intense and I can’t excuse my intensity with sadness. I can’t hide behind a reason. I’ll no longer be able to apologise for being who I am. Profound. Intense. Me.

As I reflect back on this piece, the hope flickers – the constant flick of a light being turned on, my sadness turning it off, hope switching it back on… Maybe I was never meant to live this heavy.