Making space for ‘happy’ & other important things…

I’ll whisper this very quietly lest the universe hears, but right now, sitting typing this on a very warm summer evening, I want to tell you that I’m happy.

It is not an easy thing to admit to myself, let alone others, but I think it is something that needs to be said out loud more, especially in spaces which seem dominated by sadness and pain.

The important thing to say up front is that the situation with my mum hasn’t changed. She is still very ill and in the middle of what we now expect to be a long term stay in our local mental health facility. We don’t have any more answers about her treatment and recovery than we did in April or May, and things are not going in the direction we had hoped for.

So, kind of weird that I feel happy right?

I guess the thing to point out is that I don’t feel happy about any of the above. The above still makes me feel utterly heartbroken, and sometimes a bit physically sick if a thought or memory about it catches me off guard. But what I’ve started to realise (and it’s been a long process) is that feelings aren’t exclusive. You don’t just have to be happy, or sad. You can be both - and they relate to lots of different things.

Of course we think we know that, and we talk all the time about how human emotions are complex, but I don’t think we realise until we’re caught in the middle of a complex situation just how true that needs to be. 

The first therapist I saw as a result of the situation with my mum told me very bluntly that I had to get used to maybe doing a little less, wanting a little less, and that maybe I wouldn’t ever feel fully happy again. She told me, gently, that maybe I would always feel sad and scared, and that I should prepare for that. I was terrified of moving through the world with a heaviness I didn’t know how to carry.

And so I didn’t see her again.

Three years ago, I wasn’t ready to hear that. I wasn’t ready to hear that I might always feel this aching sadness that I had inside. I wanted to hear that I could go back to before, being like ‘other’ people who didn’t seem to be carrying this huge amount of pain around with them.

Well, now I know, don’t I?

I know that I was wrong to assume ‘other’ people weren’t carrying around pain, and wrong to assume that the sadness she was asking me to make space for would come at the expense of happiness. I had mistakenly assumed I only had so much room for emotions, and that if sad was taking up so much space, then how on earth would happy ever fit? Most importantly of all, I had let myself believe that all of the things I’d hoped for myself were gone forever, because sad people don’t lead happy lives.

I feared not being happy so much that I think I actually blocked out all chances of it happening for a long time. I let those quiet moments of contentment pass me by, and dismissed the feeling of seeing something really beautiful. I erased all of the tiny things that actually make you happy, and all of the connections I had with people closest to me, so I could focus on ‘being really happy and not being sad anymore’.

It didn’t work, and I found that the harder I tried to be less sad, the worse I felt. My sadness was a normal reaction to what was happening, but I felt so threatened by it. I couldn’t understand the role of my sadness until I started to see how much of it was dependent on the outcome of what was happening to mum, and not the effort and care I was putting in instead.

Once I figured that out (with lots of help from a different therapist, and some kindness for myself) I realised that my sadness did have a role to play. My sadness and hurt at what was (and is) happening to mum is how I’m able to understand my role as a carer, and the person I have become. My sadness shows me that above all, no matter how difficult, I love her and my family, and I will always do whatever I can to help. That’s why I feel sad when it doesn’t work. In that respect, my sadness is a privilege.

But my sadness shouldn’t extend to my own ability to fix things. If I look at what I’ve contributed to the situation, and the effort and love I’ve given over the past four years, that shouldn’t be a reason for sadness. That should be a reason for happiness.

I can’t control what happens. We all know this to some extent, even when evidence tries to tell us it’s all on our shoulders. I know I can’t fix it, because if love alone could fix problems like these, she would be better - with knobs on - by now. But she isn’t, and so I cannot keep letting sadness be the only party in town.

So now, I talk about feeling happy. Happy and sad. I can write some of my most important work from a place of sadness, but I can share it with others and allow them in from a place of happiness and connection. I can reflect on the fact I’m sad mum isn’t around for my birthday, but I can be happy that I have other people who are. I am still sad about the fact I can’t take away her suffering and loneliness, but I remain happy that by setting up this space, I am doing what is in my control to try and help others. 

For the most part, these past few months have given me some huge moments of happiness. I’ve been able to put some much loved projects out into the world, have prioritised seeing my friends and loved ones when restrictions lifted, and have become part feral in my commitment to keep swimming - anywhere and everywhere. All these things have been under my control, and so despite it not feeling easy, I am trying to practice making as much space for the happy as the sad. 

There is no guarantee my mum will ever get better, and so I have to move forward, as hard as it can feel, carrying them both. Sadness and happiness, side by side, every day.