Happiness is something everyone wants.
There aren't self-help books on how to find mere survival. Thomas Jefferson didn't include misery in the Declaration of Independence. Imagine if he had - "...they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of survival." While accurate, I suppose, since we're all entitled to pursue surviving, it just sounds wrong. We are meant to be happy, whatever the word means to you, and I like to think that no one's idea of happiness involves just survival.
When I was eighteen, I defined happiness as my boyfriend. When I was twenty-two, I defined it as getting into law school. And now, at thirty-five, I define it as being fulfilled in life and appreciating it more often than not.
Depression began whispering to me about this happiness thing years ago. It lowered my standards for happiness, really, changed my definition of it to something that under normal circumstances, is hardly bearable. And it did this in many ways.
The first way was Isolation.
As a kid, I wasn't what I would call shy, and up through high school, I had a healthy amount of friends. But in college, I couldn't talk to people without feeling inadequate or invisible or unimportant. My social circle and life became extremely limited.
And I began consider that maybe it was okay. The depression told me it was, in my own voice, and why would I lie to myself? Besides, every time I tried to make progress with guys or even with girls for friendship, it never worked. I was never pretty enough, or interesting enough, or funny enough. I just wasn't enough for anyone. It became much less painful to not try.
By law school, I believed it was not only okay, but preferable. And by the time I quit law school and moved back to Colorado, I was convinced it was the way I was supposed to be. God made me that way, and there was nothing wrong with being a loner. Nothing wrong with not wanting to go anywhere even if someone asked me to. It was so much easier staying home, watching television and distracting myself with dullness.
I forgot how much I used to love being with people. I forgot that laughing with other people is twice as much fun as laughing by myself. I forgot how great simple things like driving somewhere with a friend could be. I forgot how much I love music, and to read, and to learn. I forgot so much.
No one understood me, the depression (I) said. No one saw me, no one really cared and if I wasn't around, it wouldn't make much of a difference. And I found examples. Little oversights that weren't personal became proof to me. I built a case against my own worth, using every time someone spoke over me or started talking to someone else when I was still speaking as evidence.
It became a strong case.
At the worst of the depression, I became afraid of other people and had panic attacks before going to work. I became manipulative in order to avoid as much contact as possible. I wished for some black hole to swallow me (and my television) so I could exist in peace.
Everyone wants peace, right?
I decided that my peace was being alone.
Peace, sure, but one that allowed me to accept boredom and inertia as normal. This sort of peace robs you of the beauty of life. In the stories I write, I find I often have characters who are fascinated by color. In depression, in the peace of being alone, I didn't see color anymore. Everything had become greyed over by something, my outlook, I suppose. I remember staring out my window in Chicago a at a tree and not being able to tell if the leaves had turned yet.
Worse, isolation makes you afraid of other people. I stopped missing people because I was afraid of them. Irrational? Of course. But very real.
But then again, there was beauty in the isolation. I experienced a rush of creativity, thought up so many stories that the loneliness almost became irrelevant. I thought a lot, had conversations with myself, pondered things that were sometimes shallow, other times deeper. There's an interesting sense of exploration when you spend too much time alone.
Today, I still see too much prettiness in isolation. I still have to talk myself out of making excuses for going to my Bunco group, and that's only once a month. I still prefer the company of the characters in my head to other people, because the characters can't reject me or hurt me.
In fourth grade, we wrote in a journal at school. One time the subject was “Predict Your Future”. I had myself married at 22, with four kids (really, four?) and oddly enough, living in Denver (odd because I moved to CO four years later). And when I graduated high school, I was in a serious relationship and ready to get married that day.
Now, I could care less if I ever get married.
Except that I don't know if I don't care if I ever get married. I don't know if that's just something Depression has told me so often that I think I believe it. I know that it makes things easier, because if I don't want to get married, there's no need to try to meet someone.
And I can stay home.
I don't need friends, I've told myself a million times. I don't need to go out and have fun and experience things with other people, because I can experience whatever I want to by myself and it will be just as good.
But deep down, I know it won't be, so I don't try. I hide.
So the standard for happiness is lowered. Friends? Not needed for my happiness. One less thing to worry about and have to work for. (Of course, Depression ignores me when I say it's also one less thing to add color to my life.)
I don't need friends.
I don't need to be happy.
Or so depression tells me, and I've got to figure out a way to prove Depression wrong. To myself.
Meds update: Day two on the new combination. No side effects. I feel much more steady and calm, much less “walking dead”. I'm hopeful that this will work long term.
