Am I happy?

The simple answer is “no”

But I should elaborate

So I guess here I go

Waking up every morning

Hating that I woke up

Isn’t happiness at all

If I ever knew what it was

Contemplating suicide

Keeping it to myself

Because I already said

I don’t need any help

It seems so far away

And I can't help it

Hope is gone, and so am I

I stay in my shell like a shellfish

People care

But I push away the love

I so desperately beg for

Then take what I can like an addict to drugs

I’m scared to vent

I don’t want to be a burden

So nobody gets to know

When I am hurting

Because my problems are my own

Locked myself in this house

I chose alone

So, am I happy?

The simple answer is “no”

Because I hate myself

And that is all that I know

There's a picture of Betty Draper online that shows her closing her eyes, head slightly tilted down, with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Her expression is one of complete defeat, complete frustration, complete disdain. Maybe you know what I'm talking about, and maybe you don't. But we've all left work, or a family event, and wished we had a cigarette.

I identify with Betty Draper. I've been the white girl with everything in the world. We might seem lucky, privileged, but one word does not come to mind. Happiness does not go along with white picket fences, cookie cutter suburban homes, dogs named Buddy. It's a glass cage, with everyone looking in. And somehow, and speaking for Betty Draper, or maybe just myself - it's impossible to see who, at your core, you are inside the glass castle.

I think being happy means having some self-awareness. I'm not sure I have it. What does polite company say? "I'm comfortable" enough to have my needs met. I can buy my needs, and my comforts. But there's a reason they call large bottles of wine "mom bottles." Sometimes - and this is either because of perhaps actually having self-awareness, or maybe just because being privileged comes with a certain monotonous boredom - I find myself staring at the bottom of yet another bottle of red wine, wondering where it, and time, has gone.

The other day I was checking out my items at the grocery store, one of which was a "mom bottle" of wine. The cashier said, "I like this kind of wine! And really, it's only boxed wine where you know you're desperate." What? I thought back to all the money I spend trying to obliterate consciousness, and decide that this cashier, while harsh, is definitely reading the room correctly.

I don't think I'm happy. Do you, after reading this, think I'm happy?

Betty Draper is no hero, but she's not a villain. And maybe she was happy, maybe she wasn't. Is that vague enough? But ultimately, I think, again, that happiness comes down to self-awareness, and with her cigarette dangling from her lips, irritated, I can say for certain that she was aware of her situation, her lot in life.

I'll play you're silly game. What do you want to hear--that I've discovered the key to happiness and here's what you need to do; that I'm tragically broken and even if you could help I wouldn't accept it; that I've found Jesus and everything's going to be alright... as soon as I die; or maybe that I'm climbing toward forgiveness on a escalator going down into regret? Well, the short answer is yes--they're all true.

We aren't so one-dimensional that any single emotion, or lack thereof, can encompass our entire state of being. Am I happy? Sure, sometimes. Sometimes not so much. Sometimes it's the furthest thing from my mind. Sometimes I'm freakin' ecstatic. Right now, my feet hurt, my fingers are a bit raw, my back is sore, and I've got some chafing that's pissing me off. I'm also sitting in air conditioning, in a nice office chair, and I've got the ability to play chess with one guy in Australia and another in Hawaii, I can read bootleg poetry from people around the globe, research the value of a C.M. Russell painting, execute trades in the stock market without a broker, learn about the Heian Period of 8th and 9th century Japan, and watch endless silly cat videos until I forget about what happened in the stock market. How can I not be happy with all of that? And that's all right her at my desk. Imagine what wonders await if I were to leave the room!

There's a girl who kind of likes me somewhere around here. She's probably thinking about some clever new way to remind to do something for the eighth time without seeming like she's nagging. I can't afford the truck I want, but I can afford to eat pretty damn well. I can hold my own in a conversation with very intelligent people, and I still forget stuff when I go shopping if I don't have a list. I was at Ace Hardware today. Paradise by the Dashboard Light was playing. I was singing along and dancing in the aisles. I cannot sing or dance. I enjoy studying history, but I see it repeating itself. I relocate rattlesnakes for cash and glory, and I cannot stand when I get a rogue hair in my mouth. Life is multi-dimensional.

Happiness is really just a matter of perspective, as are all things. Without an intimate awareness of cold, you can't fully appreciate hot. Without having experienced awesome, you can't fully grasp the depth of true suck. It's easy to get lost in the rabbit hole of self-loathing and despair. Eventually you become sick of it, tired of it; and when you're sick and tired of being sick and tired... then you change.

Happiness is just around the corner. It's in the lost dog you reunite with its owner, in the old man with his walker when you challenge him to a foot race, in the scowling stranger when you compliment his shirt, in a spotless windshield, in a memory of a deceased friend, in an insect whose life you spared, in freshly washed towels right out of the dryer, in a perfectly timed photo-bomb, a phone call to a sibling, a twenty-foot putt that barely misses, a kid carrying her favorite cereal toward mom's shopping cart, a really, really long funeral procession, a proud new father holding his baby, opening a jar without having to use that stupid grippy thing, Old Glory waving perfectly in the wind, an unreasonably large tip for a waiter/waitress. The only place where happiness cannot be found, in fact, is on the other side of the bed. It may look strangely appealing, but trust me, you will not be happy there.

i feel tragic in a way that exceeds emotion

it's the kind that's religious and terrible

the eyes in roman paintings and wild animals

the fire on the altar and the ecstasy in the burn

i have turned myself into art by accident

found something to believe in the pull of my throat

the dry retching of beautiful pain that gathers there

i've turned into a sort of greek tragedy

to acknowledge the undeniable heat in my chest

which contrasts with my miserably icy skin

i found myself in the margin of a tragedy

the kind where the lovers tear themselves apart

because they can't bare feeling whole and loveable

i am happy often to my very own shock

i feel i shouldn't be and it doesn't make sense

but i feel content and peaceful in the way i assume

the lovers felt when everything burned down around them

if i have one thing i have everything

joy and tragedy have never competed

they've been the lovers tearing themselves apart

trying to mend one another before tearing open their own wounds

allow me tragic happiness as it always ends and rebirths

allow me messy thoughts with bad explanation

as i will never have the right words

but life will move on anyway in it's tragic manner

and i will feel happy in autumn

The definition of happy is "feeling or showing pleasure or contentment"

I think I am broke because although I have its aesthetic

I can smile and say I feel joy

But I only feel bored and apathetic

I am not happy

Most times I just stand there all idle

But sometimes I feel something dark

I think they said "homicidal"

I'm too in my head, never quite stepping out and seeing reality as it plays out in real time. it's like watching the world pass by in recorded documents, of words and scenes, photos; a snapshot of moments past too busy, too preoccupied with insecurities and anxieties about things yet to come to enjoy the present moment. happiness feels elusive because I'm constantly on a spiral to reach the bottom, grasping at wisps of air with the scent long gone, half lived life, moments gone. wasted.

Sadly, yes.

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All my life I have been happy. I love people. I love to laugh and talk. I love new challenges. I have a roof over my head. I am thankful for the job that I have. I have no grudges or drama. I feel for others and genuinely want good for all.

When I pass coworkers in the hallways they always stop, and we laugh. I have wonderful friends and family. People tell me that I put them in a good mood because I'm always smiling. Smiling doesn't equal happy. They would genuinely be surprised to find out that I am really not all that happy. Life happened and there were struggles with a spouse with three long term diseases to which the stress led me to "that damn" autoimmune disease.

Thing is...I'm not depressed, but I'm just not as happy as I seem. There has been a shift within me...and it has left me feeling different...It feels a lot like the mask from the pandemic - there is a veil that I am hiding behind right now...well that I have been behind for a while.

I miss me....the unedited genuine me being simply just happy.