Distress.

I lay there in a bed that's not even mine, my tongue still 

scorched from earl grey tea that now begins to simmer into

my bloodstream, taming my trembling fingers

and knocked knees. 

I inhale, and as my chest opens up, a tiny white kitten trots across

and makes itself comfortable on my neighboring pillow

and I curse, grudgingly, trying to hide the fact

that I'm mourning my lost identity, but a paw touches my shoulder

and says "count your blessings." So I peer over, teary-eyed, and

let me tell you, I tried, I 

really

did

try, but

I got as far as friends and family before I thought to myself, 'now, even those

mean nothing.' Because believe me,

you can only wake up from so many sixteen-hour naps

to four empty bottles of tylenol on the nightstand

before things start to seem dreary.

And maybe I'm overreacting, but what do you expect

me to say when I've been detatched

from everything that used to make me happy...

"count your blessings?"

 

Happiness was

making music with the people I'm closest with and not understanding

how the performance ended up so

good

because we'd only learned the piece two weeks prior and the last rehearsal

was an absolute

trainwreck.

Happiness was

standing front row, right next to the speakers, every jump and 

every fist pump

another charge of energy, and the ringing

in my ears for two days after so worth

the bragging rights. 

Happiness was

strangers cheering, a bold 'FINISH' banner hovering 

above the crowds, and that

final

paced

breath

to push through the last few yards.

Happiness was

everything that life now

isn't. 

 

And I've wasted precious time dwelling.

Count your blessings:

friends, family........

 

Before I get lost again, failing to fulfill the promises I can no longer keep up with, the

little buggers in my brain still cleaning their game

of fifty-two thousand card pick up, trying

to recall the things that used to come so easy while my mind

screams, "It's

not 

fair."

But the world replies, "Life's not fair." 

So I remain a victim, some higher power's player,

counting blessings like

I'm explaining how I got the bruises on my knee,

continuing to pause after friends

and family, until I find I'm limiting

each beautiful relationship to some

cliche catagory. So

count my blessings? Dare me:

my mom, 

my stepdad,

my brother,

sister,

dog,

my boss,

the teacher that's always been there for me,

my dad

and his seven cats, including the one

that joined me in bed six nights ago and whispered

those three eye-opening

words.

 

Happiness IS.

Happiness is

sitting cross-legged in the driveway, making 

ice cream sundaes out of the pints and bags of candy from

the gas station.

Happiness is

getting lost in the city but being

too busy singing along to the radio to care.

Happiness is

a four hour thirty-three minute long conversation being

the real reason I'm late for curfew because my best friend's couch

is just out of view of the cable box.

Happiness is

every little detail 

I've taken for granted

before today.

And no, no temporary

game-changing injury

is going to take any

of that away.