Happiness is the American dream. The attractive, intellictual spouse and your own, beautiful house. Waking up to the sounds of your children running about and the dog you dreamed of since you were a child being for a walk. Getting in that car that you never once imagined you’d have and driving to your dream job that is the reason you have nine digits in your bank account.
Happiness is the smoke I puff out my lungs. Happiness is knowing I can no longer be hurt because I am and always will be alone. Happiness is waking up to no one by my side that I have to worry will no longer be by my side once they have made any use of me that they desired. Happiness is staying in that same bed an alienating myself from those people I call friends that make me want to tie a noose around my neck. Happiness is getting through the day without shedding a tear or a trigger to a panic attack. Happiness is those pills I swallow to erase these horredous thoughts from my mentally ill “psychotic” mind. Happiness is just surviving through another day without giving into those dark innermost desires I have in which I mask with this pseudo-happiness.