Like all parents, we have been stressing the importance of honesty to our children. But every time I told one of them to always tell the truth, I felt like a fraud. And I couldn’t understand why.

In the past two weeks I have had to admit some uncomfortable truths to myself. You see, I haven’t been happy in a very long time. But if you had asked me how I describe myself the answer would’ve been “happy,” until about two weeks ago. I’m not sad or mopey or depressed, and I confused the absence of depression with true happiness. If I had been more honest, I would have described myself as angry, thwarted, dissatisfied.

My husband said that I have been unhappy for as long as he can remember. And he’s right. There are bits and pieces of happiness in my life–Hubby, Monkey, Pumpkin. But running underneath it all is a fetid stream of disappointment and it has been there since I was a teenager.

It seems cliched and too easy to lay the blame on my parents, but they at least got the ball rolling. My parents were two very unhappy people. Dad always seemed happiest in his absence from home. When he wasn’t at work, he was at church, stuffing his life full of other people and crowding us out. He joined a bass fishing club so he could be away on Saturdays as well, free from the thought of all his many obligations.

Mother was an unhappy woman from a long line of unhappy women. My maternal grandmother never was allowed to fulfill her potential and she made damn sure that her daughter wasn’t either. To be fair, both of my parents seem much happier now. They take fun vacations and smile a lot more. Perhaps it was having children that turned them both into such curmudgeons. Now the pressure is off and they can afford to loosen up a little. And they are much better grandparents than parents.

I never felt as if my hopes and dreams carried any weight. Writing was the first thing I really wanted to do. I wrote my first free verse at 12, it wasn’t very good, but I was 12. I read it proudly to my parents who promptly belittled everything about it. They stabbed me right in the dreams.

As I matured, others took notice of my writing and praised me for it. But no amount of outside encouragement could make up for its utter lack in the home-front. Journalism seemed like a good outlet, so I joined the school paper. (And not at my parents’ prompting mind you. My driver’s ed partner encouraged me. Thanks Gina!) But journalism and I weren’t a good fit. And nobody ever informed me that you don’t have to write for the paper to have a career in writing.

I loved to write stories and used the typing practice my parents forced on me to write them. My dad would read the stories to check my typing progress and laugh at me for my ideas. I learned to push my dreams down where no one would laugh at them anymore.

When college time loomed, I quietly sent off for information from Bryn Mawr and Mt. Holyoke. I wanted so badly to go to a women’s college and study writing, but I knew better than to voice those desires. Again and again I silenced my dreams, refusing to give them voice.

Denying myself my hopes and dreams became a kind of survival mechanism. If I didn’t tell anybody what I really wanted, they couldn’t laugh at me, denigrate me, dismiss me. And after a time I forgot who I was and what I wanted. I forgot why I wasn’t happy.

I began looking for other things, outside things to make me happy. If I only do this thing, then I will be happy. But nothing outside of me had the power to make me happy or unhappy.

I always knew I wanted marriage and a family, so I married the love of my life, who loves me, happy or sad, good or bad. Adjusting to married life kept my mind occupied for a long time. Then just the busyness of life took over and I forgot, for a time, about the unhappiness. But then we started trying to have a baby and ran into some difficulties.

Unhappiness threatened to overwhelm me. My body was betraying me daily, steadfastly refusing to get pregnant. I mistakenly believed that my infertility was the cause of my unhappiness and when I finally had a baby, everything would be all right.

What a terrible burden to put on a baby. Then post-partum depression hit. I was in the deepest, blackest pit in the dungeon. Alone, unnourished, with only the dank, stony walls of my prison to comfort me. Even after I came out of PPD, I still had a load of anger and resentment to carry around.

No matter what I tried, I couldn’t off-load that anger and resentment. Too often they would come bubbling up to the surface, spilling over onto my poor family. I thought going to nursing school would “fix” me. But I don’t really want to be a nurse. I’m certainly capable of being a nurse, but I’m not suited to it. Maybe I was trying to curry favor with my impossible-to-please mother.

Finally I couldn’t take anymore denial–I had to admit to my husband and to myself just how I really felt. I had to admit that I am not the basically happy person that I fancied myself to be. I am not a happy person, there I admitted it. I was honest.

Then I had to figure out why. It felt like there was something missing inside, but what? What is this shape in my heart? The one that I can trace with my mind, the way you can trace a missing tooth with your tongue. Oh yes, that is the shape of my dreams, my hopes, the thing I really want but have been unable to say aloud in too many years.

I want to be a writer! An author, the kind that gets recognized and paid for her words. The kind whose thoughts are valued and whose ideas see the light of day in the printed word. I want my words, my thoughts, my ideas, my fine sharp mind, to be set down in print.

With a boldness I have never expressed before, I claim my dreams. Never again will I allow any thought of my parents to dictate what I do and do not write.So, to all my readers–I am now open for business as a writer. If you know anyone who needs a writer be sure to let me know and let them know, too.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008 at 6:00 pm and is filed under Healthy Family, Living, Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.