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I call my Lucy the World’s Happiest Dog. Maybe you can see why.

She’s never in a bad mood. She’s always thrilled to see me. She doesn’t care what we do — as long as she gets to spend time with me. She’s loving and gentle, but above all else, she’s happy. All the time.

I haven’t been happy for a long time. The world seems to have gone mad. My life is nothing like I want it to be. I feel as though I’ve lost control over my direction. Nothing is as I want it to be.

But tonight, I am happy. Do I need a reason to feel happy?

Maybe it’s the crisp autumn weather that’s just arrived in Birmingham this weekend. Maybe it’s the feeling of peace that comes from slowly working through deeper issues. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m happy tonight. I feel the way Lucy always acts.

And in my happiness, my thoughts turn to a woman. I’m happy enough that all I want is to share my happiness with her. Even though I can’t.

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I didn’t get to sleep Friday night until the sun was coming up Saturday morning around 6:30 a.m.

I’m not quite sure what I was doing all night, but this has become a pattern for me lately. I spent some of the time reading. I watched a movie. And I spent quite awhile at this little gazebo about half a mile from my house. It’s at the center of the little downtown area of the suburb where I live. While the rest of the city is asleep, it’s a good place for me to write.

I’m back there again Saturday night, but it’s hard to be sure why I’m here. I feel the need to write, but I also feel a creeping frustration that doesn’t have a name. Part of me wants to hide and be alone, and another part of me wants to desperately reach out to someone. I feel so conflicted — like someone who is screaming like a mad man on the inside but looks perfectly calm on the outside.

I feel as though I’ve lost control over my life — and these late-night times of solitude seem to be the only times when things make any sense.

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I no longer recognize the person I was when I was 25 years old.

I don’t quite know who I was. I was managing editor of a small daily newspaper. I was good at my job. I was brash. Ambitious. Arrogant. I knew it all. I was going to change the world.

And that precocious and baby-faced man was married, too.

I rarely mention having been married back then, although I wrote about it here a couple of years ago. In fact, I rarely think about it. That’s a part of my life that feels completely foreign to me now. It’s almost as though it never happened.

Even though she and I have been divorced for years now, I still have the highest regard for the woman I married back then. We still have friendly correspondence every now and then. I’m very happy that she married a man who seems perfect for her. They have a fine son and they’re both college journalism professors.

When we married, I thought she was my soulmate. I thought our marriage was for life. So what happened? Was I wrong to think we were soulmates? Or was it something else?

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