you were waking, day was breaking

A little over one year ago, I was unhappy.  Not an "I'm in a bad mood" unhappy, or a "I had an unfortunate day" unhappy -- the kind of unhappy that made me forget things.  That made me forget what it was like to feel a smile right down to the tips of my toes for more than a fleeting instant, what it was like to truly feel confident and comfortable and beautiful.  It was the kind of unhappy signified not by one dark storm cloud that loomed temporarily over my head, but rather the total absence of sunlight.

I guess I am thinking about this because it was around this time last year that I emerged from the depths of this unhappiness, suddenly and somewhat unexpectedly.  The winter of my junior year was marked by stress, self-loathing, and this persistent unhappiness; I slipped, along with the temperature, into my blackening surroundings.  I have never thought of myself as a low-self-esteem girl, someone with no confidence or assurance who spends most of their time feeling unworthy and unappreciated.  But the absurd contrast between feeling that unflagging winter's unhappiness and the joy and contentment that suddenly became a part of my life when I let go of my self-loathing felt, to me, as if I had been plunging without realizing it into the depths of something dark and frightening and had miraculously emerged, gratefully gasping the happiness and sunlight that I had been missing for so long.

But the stark contrast between joy and self-consciousness made me realize something strange: I hadn't even realized I was forgetting what it was like to feel happy.  I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd truly not worried about the person I was being subordinate to what I thought it should be.  And as I emerged, I savored every single breath of happiness as if it were precious.  Because, I suppose, it was precious, and it continues to be precious, even now.  I can't say that I have spent the entire past year without once slipping into self-consciousness or pity, but I have never returned to the depths of where I was last winter.

Maybe it isn't going very far away from home that makes you realize just how far you have traveled -- maybe it is returning to the place you belong, coming back.  Because if you are slipping away from the person you are gradually, how can you possibly realize it until it's too late? And how can you possibly appreciate the distance you have traveled, the hell you have faced, before you have come full circle?

I guess I just believe in the importance of remembering who you are.  Because if you forget gradually enough, you might not even realize that it is happening.  You can only stop yourself if you have someone or something to pull you out of the depths of unhappiness or self-loathing, but it's important to remember that sometimes, the only person who has that ability is you.

photo via anjali @ deviantart