I struggle with happiness. Wait. What? This phrase is a paradox. But hear me out.
I’ve been in a really good mood for a couple of weeks now, handling life, work, kids, stress at as high a coping level as I ever seem to muster.
The struggle with happiness comes with the thinking. I’m a thinker. I think entirely too much, analyze, dissect, examine things way too closely for my own sanity.
The struggle with happiness leads me to thinking I’m a-okay, and really I am a-okay even when I’m in a bad mood because the Lord is for me, loves me, holds me, protects me.
But there are all these skeletons buried in my closet. This closet needs opening and cleaning out so much because it’s explosively full, like the ones you see in movies that hold all the junk of an entire house precariously balanced in just the right way that if anyone even thinks about opening the door, the closet will vomit out all the stuff that was so carefully balanced inside it to begin with. That’s what my closet looks like.
The struggle with happiness makes me want to walk away from the skeleton closet, go about my daily routine pretending it’s not there, ignoring the door as I flit back and forth past it as I run from this fun event to the next fun event because I’m happy today, why stir up trouble?
The struggle with happiness has me rationalizing the wisdom of spending money for counseling. I’m fine. What do I need that for when that money could go to something else?
The struggle with happiness has me dragging myself to said counselor, turning off the little voice in my head that says I’m fine, why bother and choosing to listen to the Voice that says it’s time to deal with that messy skeleton closet once and for all because the closet is still there waiting to burst open at the slightest hint of a breeze.
But the struggle exists nevertheless.
Linking with Jennifer Dukes Lee for #tellhisstory.