Some people are incredibly gifted.
Artists who can touch a brush to a piece of canvas and embody a dream. Writers who create whole worlds with people so real you can almost see them. Athletes. Musicians.
Me? I have an absolute gift for making myself miserable.
With the flick of a brain cell I can turn a molehill into Mt. Everest or a pothole-sized problem into the depths of perdition. Physically, I can be in the midst of a group of people, maybe even conversing with them, while mentally I’m in the Obsessional, pacing holes in its dreary gray carpet.
It’s not fun, that’s for sure. It solves no problems, lightens no loads. So why do I insist on making myself miserable? I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times and never found a good answer.
Until tonight, when I realized I’ve been going about this all wrong.
It was one of those flashing marquee moments that highlight the belatedly obvious, usually followed by a resounding slap to the forehead.
What if, instead of mulling over my absolute gift for making myself miserable, I concentrated on making myself happy?
Duh! I can choose to be happy!
Can it really be that simple? Why not? After all, it only takes one person pulling one lever to stop a merry-go-round, right?
I’ll let you know how it goes.