don't fight it

in third grade the boy who picked his nose on the swings asked my teacher what sadness was 

she stared at him, giving him a look like she knew he was too old to ask these questions but she also knew the kid who picked his nose on the swings wasn't the kind of kid who would care

so she gave him a trite answer, a move seemingly parallel to quickies after a long day. she said "sadness is a very bad pain that won't stop"

It turns out I took my third grade lesson too seriously, because eight years later I was under the impression I was in a chronic upset because my friends were s****y and my skin was bad and my tears never once made me feel better

Sadness was being stuck, i was taught. It won't stop, i was taught. it's a sickness, i was taught. DON'T FIGHT IT, I was taught

So i had to figure out on my own what was really happening. I had to find out behind the veiled curtain of anxiety medication and tiny zen gardens just big enough to avoid having to look at my therapist when she tells me that 

it's all in my head

that if i tried hard enough if i got strong enough i could be any kind of person i wanted to be 

sad or miserable or bitter or patient and strong and secure

this is the secret no one talked about and you only get to hear if you're sad and giving up and on your last wind and sick of dealing with s**t that sucks

sadness is a jar of blue paint made for a nursery but only half full, filling knicks on the walls and ceiling of the house you can no longer afford

happiness is a jar of blue paint that was never the blue you wanted anyway and knowing that you  a nursery can wait

happiness is f*****g hard

because everyone knows even white picket fences were homes for birds once, destroyed and sold as a suburban dream when black people were getting hanged for being black and every father was an alcoholic and children grew up learning to hate and love women in very different ways

but at least it's not a secret anymore