Since the twenty ninth of December, my voice has been rather silent. All the preceding four months have been missed by your eyes and you have no knowledge of how happy I am. From the acquisition of my two new jobs, the successful procession of my book publication, and its production genesis on the second of February, to the very fact that I have never in my life held this measure of elongated happiness… ever, much therefore needs to be parleyed.
I shall no longer be employed under the banner of Bon Appetit come the morrow. I am this night to work on my letter of resignation. Having to depart all my beloved friends amid the Biola Cafeteria–relationships in which all the wealth of the world could not even hope to remotely purchase–my sojourning is not without a taste of bitterness mingled with sweetness. For although I desired to leave the cafeteria and although my prospects of afforded me employment of greater monetary yield, it is never easy to say goodbye to people with whom you love. I hate myself for taking all these past four years for granted. Yet is this not the typical pattern of our lives: to never come to truly miss and lament something until it is gone?
I have been going through depressive withdrawals. Because my psyche is not conditioned to such happiness and for so long, certain even physiological reactions have befallen my body. One such reaction to the happiness is an amplified sensitivity. During my last days at work I would remove myself to the isolated space of dry storage to expend a few moments in sorrowful tears. The combination of all things good happening like a strong rain after an insufferable drought engenders a highly reactive emotional state, in which the tiniest influence of something moving could compel me into fitful and even spiteful sobs. Other areas in my life have been met with at times a mild apathy, such as keeping my room clean, washing my car or, regretfully, taking my medication. Yet, I lavish in the blessing that it is but a mild indifference; nothing too damaging. All this to say, regardless, I am not used to such joy. Having ever been under the impression that life was inexorably and irrevocably depressing, that we were but objects or vessels encasing the founding emotion of sadness perpetually–with joy an emotion that is invoked with rarity and scarcity–my happiness does not even feel natural. I shall convey, of course, the finalizing of this new and novel emotion in my life as I continue to live with this rather vexing disposition to smile more often than frown.
I project that my book shall be available for purchase nationwide sometime in August. However, anything could happen, pertaining to delays or what hath thou. I pray this story becomes what I have dreamt about ever since I was first released from the psychiatric ward: hope.
-The Giver of Words