56 - The Suspicion of Joy

Withdrawn from the pain. 

It’s a strange concept, 

but it happens.

After a stretch of high days

when the light feels real, 

when laughter doesn’t feel borrowed, 

when the weight lifts just enough to let you breathe

I start to worry.

Not because I want the darkness back, 

but because I know what could be waiting. 

Like a debt collector. 

Like gravity.

The longer the joy lasts, 

the more I fear the fall. 

And the higher I climb, 

the more I wonder how far I’ll drop when it ends.

It’s not pessimism. 

It’s pattern recognition. 

It’s the quiet math of survival.

So I begin to withdraw. 

Not from the joy itself, 

but from the vulnerability it demands. 

I flinch at the warmth because I know how cold the absence feels.

I start to brace before anything breaks. 

I rehearse the descent while still in the ascent.

And that’s the tragedy of it

Even in happiness, 

I’m preparing for sorrow. 

Even in light, 

I’m shadowed by memory.

I don’t sabotage the good days. 

I just don’t trust them. 

Not fully. 

Not yet.

Because when you’ve lived with the ache of sudden collapse, 

you learn to love gently

and to hold joy like a fragile thing that might not survive the night.

It’s not self-sabotage. 

It’s self-protection, 

disguised as doubt