I'm not unhappy. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
There's a difference between being unhappy and just, not happy. And now I'm just not happy. Although I'm leaning dangerously close to being unhappy.
I don't hate this, not at all. I like it, I like it very much- the learning especially. I love all the new things I'm learning, all these wonderful concepts and history that I wouldn't otherwise have known. And I'm putting it to immediate use too.
But somehow despite that, I'm not happy.
If I said this out loud, some people might tell me to "choose to be happy". I think you can choose, up to a certain point. I never chose to be happy about work, about waking up at six in the morning, about losing my voice every other week. I never chose that. And yet I was happy. I was completely and utterly happy- with my life, with my work with the way I was, with myself as a person.
I miss that you know. I miss just being happy.
Fuck, I'll live on next to nothing, on a pay cheque that either stays at the same low number or one that goes up and down (sometimes down to nothing on some months) if it just meant me being happy again.
My cat could die, and I would walk into the classroom the next day and escape, take myself out of it for a while. I could hold myself together.
The fuck is this? I'm falling apart as I do bloody TaiChi or movement! And not cos my cat died either. In fact my life on the outside is going perfectly. I'm just blanking out for about ten hours a day. It feels like ten hours a day where I cease to exist, as opposed to finding parts of me.
It's like I live for the moments before and after and surely, surely there is something wrong.