I am an optimist. I think that point has been made abundantly clear throughout this journal and throughout my life. Often, people have used it as a criticism of me; "You just can't face reality," they say, shaking their heads, or "Get your head out of the clouds." My husband has been one such "realist," stubbornly pointing out the grey clouds in my silver linings. My father is another.

Recently, Eric has faced the fact that some part of his "realism" is, in truth, probably chemical. He's been taking Effexor since Friday, and, while I'm told it will take about six weeks for the drug to take full effect, things already seem to be improving. Those grey clouds appear to be shrinking, slowly but surely.

I'm certain that everything is going to work out fine.

I don't know why I have that certainty, or why I've always had it. Truly, I haven't had the most advantaged past. I grew up in the smallest (a single bedroom that my parents turned into a double), oldest house in the neighborhood with a mother who was doomed to perpetuate a generations-deep cycle of mental and physical abuse. I was the picked-on child, the class geek until high school (where I remained the geek but stopped allowing it to bother me). Surely, if anybody had a right to view the world as a hostile, angry place, it was me.

I refused then, and I refuse now. I can't put a finger directly on why, but I've always felt protected. Shielded. Even in the worst moments of my life, I've somehow managed to maintain a single thought and mindset: "Just keep going; it's okay. This will all come out right in the end."

Life isn't run by Hollywood, I know, and I have no guarantee of a happy ending. Even so, I haven't yet been let down. Things always seem to work out for the best, and so I feel confident continuing along my blissful, surefooted path, rose-colored glasses planted firmly on the bridge of my nose. Forward, ho!

My mother hit me, yes, and said many horrible things to me and about me. She has also apologized, held me, and loved me, and we've healed and grown closer than I ever could have dreamed.

We were the "poor family." So what? We always had food, shelter, clean clothes, and warm beds. Both my brother and I were able to go to college, and the Jordache jeans that I never had wouldn't even be fit for the Salvation Army by now.

I never had many boyfriends, and only kissed two men before I met Eric. Does that matter now, when I'm married to the man I've always wanted?

It took us a year to conceive our son. I would have given ten years for a single one of his precious smiles.

And now I sit here, next to my sleeping child, amazed - even me! - at just how good life can get. Just last week, Eric and I were sighing over finances yet again; Eric told me how much he wished we were able to bring in just a little extra money each month. Then, yesterday, the puzzle pieces came together with an almost audible "click": not only is it looking likely that a contractor position that Amy sent my way will fall into pace, but I also was able to land a position as a freelance writer with a local parenting magazine. Serendipity at its finest!

I'm an optimist. I've had plenty of reasons to be one. I don't know why things seem to come together so well so often, but I've a sneaking suspicion that it's simply because I believe that they will. A positive outlook seems to create its own luck.

Actually, I'm sure of that.