If you look at Webster’s dictionary, you will find that ‘happy’ and ‘joy’ have nearly an identical definition. I tend to disagree.
I am joyful from a deep, deep place within me. Always have been. I see the wonders of the world easily. They call out to me. My joy has never been dependent on any one thing. It operates automatically.
But, happy. Happiness had always eluded me.
To me, happiness is a state of contentment. A resting state, like the pressure of your blood. Joy, the heart monitor, erratic, spiking.
Before I met Nic, I had heard of happy couples, happy people. I mostly didn’t believe in them, though a couple pairings left me intrigued. I’d seen people that looked close enough to happy to convince me that it was possible I didn’t quite know everything.
I used to walk into work in the morning, and my office mates would ask me how the morning had been. I would seek out an expletive, marry it with a forceful adjective, and rain on their early-day parade.
On my worst days now, I complain, being careful to finish on a high note. “But holy shit, look at all the good!,” I’ll say. “Did you see the sunrise this morning?” I’ll ask.
I have a sweetness in my home that you CANNOT imagine, I want to say.
I hated hearing about happy before, when I didn’t know what it meant to be. I hated seeing society’s supposed happy, when they felt so damn foreign to me.
Now my resting state nearly matches the high peaks of my joy.
And now, when I find people that seem happy? I don’t question a thing. I thank god for their happiness. I thank the universe that they were there to show me what it looked like, so that when I got close, I let my hand rest there long enough to find out the truth.
Happiness wasn’t a ruse.