A mourning person
I realized several years ago that I am actually more comfortable being unhappy than I am being happy. Being unhappy is who I am; it’s what I do. I know how to be unhappy. It works for me.
So, I drag out these mourning periods I go through when a relationship—either real or imagined—ends. I kind of enjoy the mourning period because I know how to do it right. I know how to go over and over every detail in my head, and I know how to have all the imaginary conversations in my head of what I would say if I really had the guts and the opportunity. I know how to pick myself apart until I figure out the exact reason it didn’t work and the exact things that were wrong with me. Sometimes I decide the flaws were his, but I don’t shy away from admitting when I am the problem.
The mourning feels like home to me. I’m comfortable there and I know the routine. And really, I think each of these times have made me know myself better than I did before. Of course, right? Anyway, I guess I’m actually about as happy as I’m ever going to get.
