HappyHappy JoyJoy

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Happy Happy Joy Joy.”

The last time I cried tears of joy? Frankly, I don’t usually cry tears of joy, with the exception of the birth of my children. Those tears came each time I held my beautiful and healthy new baby in my arms. They were tears of joy mixed with tears of relief (the painful labor was over) and the wonderful result was lying in my arms.

I do remember crying tears of joy and relief when I realized the severe depression and paranoia I had been suffering with for years had finally lifted and I could, in fact, feel joy again. My depression had slowly consumed me. It felt as though I was in a pit and suddenly the bottom fell out.

I will never take feeling joy for granted. Not after what I went through. For a very long time I felt that I would never smile again, much less feel joy again.

Many people do not realize that those who suffer severe depression do not have the control to shut it off at their own will. It consumes you and takes control. It does not allow you to “just turn it off.” Particularly if it is caused by a chemical imbalance. In order to overcome it, it takes an enormous amount of work and the correct medication. I believe doctors have become better trained for mental illness and chemical imbalances and that medications have evolved to produce much more satisfying results than they did in years past.

This post is suppose to be about joy and not depression. But, how do you know what joy feels like if you do not also know the pain of sadness?

I can safely say, without a doubt, that true joy is priceless.

To each person reading this, I wish you a very Happy New Year and I wish you the best of everything wonderful.

Peace, Love, JOY and Hugs



All Grown Up

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “All Grown Up.”

My son was born in a small hospital in a tiny town in eastern Colorado. My husband taught at the high school.

When my labor pains first began, I called the school so they could alert my husband because we lived way out of town. When I first went to the hospital I can truthfully say that my labor pains weren’t that bad. In fact, I was put in the same room as a woman who had just had gallbladder surgery. (They didn’t have a labor room). She kept telling me that she would rather have a baby than gallbladder surgery.

By that evening my pains were excruciating and the woman in the next bed had changed her mind and decided she would rather have gallbladder surgery than have a baby.

Back then there wasn’t spinal blocks for pain. They said they gave me pain medicine but I honestly couldn’t tell they had. For two more days I was in excruciating pain and hard, difficult labor. After three days of labor, my husband told the doctor that if our baby wasn’t born within two hours he demanded the doctor do a C- Section. The doctor had told us that he didn’t do C-Sections because the first baby was always the hardest and after the mother delivers the first baby, the following babies would be easier. (Actually, I think he was a quack).

After another hour and a half the doctor wheeled me to the delivery room and delivered him with forceps.

There are no words to describe the feeling you have the moment you have no more of that incredible pain. (angels softly singing) ~Heavenly~

There is one thing for sure, after that ordeal, I felt like a grown-up. A very, very exhausted grown-up, and that was only the beginning…

The Gift

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Mystery Box.”

Sara switched the light on in our room causing the bright lights to explode my dream world and wake me from my blissful sleep.

“Wake up! Santa came. Your gift is here.” Sara yelled with glee, pointing to the shiny package near my bed.

I honestly didn’t think there would be gifts this year, it has been a difficult year for our parents. Sara still believes in Santa. I do not.

“Oh Sara, couldn’t you let me sleep just a little longer.”

“No! Mommy and daddy said to get up and open our gifts.”

I rolled off my bed dragging myself to the package. I was surprised. This was not either of my parents handwriting.

“Open me, if you dare.”

Sara watched me with joy and excitement. My own excitement was short-lived. Who wrote this and what did it mean?

“Open it Sally! It’s from Santa.”

My fingers tenderly tore the bright shiny paper off revealing a plain white box. Handwriting on the box wrote, “All you have to do is believe.”

“No, this couldn’t be right. There is no Santa. I don’t believe in him anymore.”

I slowly lifted the top off the box. Inside was the camera I had been wanting for so long.

“How did this get here? I told no one about wanting this camera.”

A big smile reached my lips, “I believe Santa. I believe.”