I Think I'm Happy - but the Concept is Pretty Foreign, so I'm Not Sure

This is really weird. I’m actually…happy. Full of joy. Content.

For real.

Wow.

For the past five, six weeks, you all know that I’ve been in this, like, crazy sad/anxiety-riddled/I want to jump off the roof type of depression.

Usually, if someone were to ask me how I was feeling on a scale of 1-10, the number I gave you would be based more or less on the below graph I have made. So, even if I were to tell you that I was, say, a 7 on that graph, you’d be able to understand that what I’m really saying is that, at least for today, I don’t completely want to find a giant black trash bag, put myself in it, dig a hole, and hide in it forever.

But not today. Today, I’d say the graph is more accurately described as this:

And would you believe me if I told you I was probably, on that scale, an 8? Or, maybe, a bit more correctly, a 7.5?

‘Tis true, my friends.

I’ve eaten today, like really well – dare I say almost normally? I did laundry and the dishes and made a dee-lish lunch for me and The Husband. Cade’s typically a bit grumpy, and his asthma’s acting up, which is why I suppose I’m not a bit higher on that scale. But I don’t care, I won’t complain. Because, I may not know all the reasons I’m happy, (though I do have a few ideas, but I won’t bore you with them) but I won’t question them. I’ll just pray I begin to have more and more of them.

Do I dare hope?