Happy That
“Are you happy?” An open-ended question posing as an either-or.
“Yes. I’m happy.” That’s a lie. I could be happier, more content. I’ve done shit that I’ll never forgive myself for. I resent where I am in life — the job, the people, the money, the mirror. I fell behind and never caught up. I’m not the person I wanted to be by now. No, I’m too mentally ill to be happy. Surely this isn’t what happiness is.
“No. I’m not happy.” Another lie. I could be happier, but it could always be worse. I don’t want to die. I don’t hate myself all the time. I’m not trapped in a loveless marriage, I’m not rationing pennies for a meal, and I’m not shivering on the streets. I’m clothed and healthy. I’m paying my bills. No, I’m too grateful to be unhappy. Surely I’m happier than some people, so I guess that means that I am.
“Happiness is a choice.” Anyone who’s struggled through depression has been flogged with that fortune cookie phrase at least once. It’s not a destination — some pie-in-the-sky, stars-aligned vibration that you reach at the X on a treasure map. It’s also not a decision — flipping a switch, bootstrapping an attitude problem.
The definition of happiness is a blurry ideal, and I (like everybody else) have struggled with what to call it, what it looks like for me.
Hi. I’m a self-made self-help guru, and while I was meditating under a waterfall somewhere in India, the spirit of Rumi whispered in my ear and gave me the secret to happiness. Today, I wish to share that gift with you.
In all seriousness, I’ve never found any advice on how to achieve happiness helpful. It’s all either condescendingly simple or freakishly impersonal. “Wow. That solved your problem? You didn’t have much of a problem to begin with, did you?” You can’t trick yourself into being happy. Nobody’s that dumb.
Prescriptive happiness is snake oil, plain and simple. I think descriptive happiness, though, has the potential to ease some pain.
I’m not happy — I’m happy that I get to see golden hour wash over the city from my window.
I’m not happy — I’m happy that it’s cold enough to wear that jacket.
I’m not happy — I’m happy that I’m still in contact with my best friend.
I’m not happy — I’m happy that I want to wake up alive tomorrow.
Inevitably, the illusion fades when news breaks from Colorado Springs, when the Florida election results come in, when the man on the corner disappears, when that anniversary passes, when the best thing you had going for you slips through your fingers like sand, etc.
But that momentary relief, that sliver of enjoyment among life’s Bosch-esque backdrop — that’s pretty fucking nice.
I’ve had long, exhausting stretches of time when it felt like life was a form of drowning — when every force conspires against you, pushes the desperate gasps for air right out, and drags you down again. I’m not happy — I’m happy that I’m not drowning like that anymore.
I’m not sure if this sunshiney “I’m happy that” idea would have helped me at all then. In fact, I’m sure I would have met it with contempt. Suffering can’t be solved with a candy coating or a free will perspective shift. Suffering makes you question the point of even staying.
Right now, though, I’m not happy. I’m happy that whenever my brain feels like it’s about to self-destruct, it stops short. I’m happy that I can still across something that might be worth missing. I’m happy that I have the capacity to find a moment of respite every now and then.
It may not come when I need it most or in the way that I want or even at all for a long time, but it will come at some point if I just stick around.
8/30
