Someone told me today that she liked seeing me because I was always happy. I couldn’t help but laugh a little in disbelief and look at her a little funny as she walked away.
When I joke about dying, usually crossing my fingers in a somewhat playful manner for something bad to happen to me, it usually isn’t a full joke. Talking about cancer like I do – crossing my fingers for it or telling someone it’s “just the cancer” when I cough or limp – isn’t always just a joke.
Now I don’t flaunt my unhappiness but that doesn’t mean that my jokes don’t hold some truth. That when I say certain things I’m completely kidding. I don’t usually say I’m just kidding and often I’ll just say “shit happens” instead.
But maybe she just doesn’t want to see it. Maybe a lot of people just don’t want to see it; even if it’s so plainly there. Maybe, though, it’s because it is so plainly there. Who knows? Maybe my constant laughter does mask the sometimes unbearable sadness.
I try really fucking hard to be happy.
I laugh, smoke my stupid e-cig, and try to envision the future in some pale pink light to make it through. Fake it ‘till you make it, right? I guess I’m pretty good at it. If I’m fooling people I must be, right?
What’s funny, though, is I don’t even try to hide it. I may not blurt out everything that’s on my chest, but it’s right there if you want to know. Just ask and I have no problem with sharing.
Let’s just say no one’s asked.
I promise this isn’t me whining about someone not asking me or whatever. Really, it’s not. I don’t live day-to-day for someone to insert themselves into my life. I know we all have our own things to worry about.
But open your fucking eyes at least.
‘I’m so happy when you see me?’ In-fucking-valid.