I realize that this blog post is not typical of the other posts on this particular blog, but no one ever reads this blog anymore so whatthehellever.
I'm not a very honest person (and for good reason). But for some reason or other, I showed a quiet glimpse of honesty to a dear friend tonight by not saying yes when he asked if I was happy. We were having the sort of conversation where it could be easy to assume that I meant to add a 'right now' at the end of my answer ("I'm not very happy right now, but I'm happy most of the time"), which is why the conversation went on without a hitch after I said it. To leave it at that would be characteristic of the kind of dishonesty through which I filter most of what I say.
But I'm not writing about being dishonest.
To be honest, I'm not happy.
To be honest, I can't remember a time where I could describe my life, in general, as a happy one.
To be honest, I'm at peace with it.
For various reasons, I have never felt comfortable in the place I called home. I'm sure the years between infancy and adolescence were happy ones, but I can hardly remember what life was like back then. For as long as I can remember, I have been on edge. The home where I grew up was a toxic one, a fact I didn't realize until I was preparing to leave for college. My 17-year-old sister is starting to realize the same truth, though she has discovered an out that I never had at her age, and I'm sick with jealousy about that. If you know me at all, then you know that Provo has been a very difficult place for me to live. I don't feel comfortable in this city unless I am completely alone, and even then I can feel the pressure of this place building up around me so much that I have to read a book or take a nap or do something hurtful to myself just so I can remember that there is more to life than what is being pushed on me here. And don't get me started on how I felt when I was in Russia. With the exception of one awful experience in my childhood, I have never felt more empty and low than when I was living in Moscow.
Clearly, being unhappy is something that I've grown accustomed to. But being used to it doesn't, in itself, make it much easier to deal with. Expecting to be unhappy doesn't make unhappiness any less painful. Misery is misery, no matter how long you've had to deal with it or how far back you saw it coming. However, it does make the highs much higher. When my team wins, when a stranger compliments me, when I find five bucks in my pocket, I can't describe what it's like. I assign so much joy to those little things, an unhealthy amount almost. This because they carry the ability to pick me up out of that pathetic pit of misery that I'm so used to, even if only for the smallest moment. And on the good days, the ones where the will of the Universe seems to match my own, oh what rapture!
Of course, this means that even the smallest hiccup during a glimpse of happiness could send me back to the floor in a pitiful heap, but who cares? I'm used to being unhappy. But I'll hang onto that ray of sunshine for as long as my memory remembers it because for at least that moment, I was happy.
And that's why I'm at peace with my despair. I feel more deeply because of it. I don't pity myself for my unhappiness, and neither should anyone else. I'm convinced that I'm experiencing a greater breadth of life than any of those smiley people I sometimes feel myself envying. And what is this life for if not to experience the highest highs and the lowest lows?
(right?)
I'm not a very honest person (and for good reason). But for some reason or other, I showed a quiet glimpse of honesty to a dear friend tonight by not saying yes when he asked if I was happy. We were having the sort of conversation where it could be easy to assume that I meant to add a 'right now' at the end of my answer ("I'm not very happy right now, but I'm happy most of the time"), which is why the conversation went on without a hitch after I said it. To leave it at that would be characteristic of the kind of dishonesty through which I filter most of what I say.
But I'm not writing about being dishonest.
To be honest, I'm not happy.
To be honest, I can't remember a time where I could describe my life, in general, as a happy one.
To be honest, I'm at peace with it.
For various reasons, I have never felt comfortable in the place I called home. I'm sure the years between infancy and adolescence were happy ones, but I can hardly remember what life was like back then. For as long as I can remember, I have been on edge. The home where I grew up was a toxic one, a fact I didn't realize until I was preparing to leave for college. My 17-year-old sister is starting to realize the same truth, though she has discovered an out that I never had at her age, and I'm sick with jealousy about that. If you know me at all, then you know that Provo has been a very difficult place for me to live. I don't feel comfortable in this city unless I am completely alone, and even then I can feel the pressure of this place building up around me so much that I have to read a book or take a nap or do something hurtful to myself just so I can remember that there is more to life than what is being pushed on me here. And don't get me started on how I felt when I was in Russia. With the exception of one awful experience in my childhood, I have never felt more empty and low than when I was living in Moscow.
Clearly, being unhappy is something that I've grown accustomed to. But being used to it doesn't, in itself, make it much easier to deal with. Expecting to be unhappy doesn't make unhappiness any less painful. Misery is misery, no matter how long you've had to deal with it or how far back you saw it coming. However, it does make the highs much higher. When my team wins, when a stranger compliments me, when I find five bucks in my pocket, I can't describe what it's like. I assign so much joy to those little things, an unhealthy amount almost. This because they carry the ability to pick me up out of that pathetic pit of misery that I'm so used to, even if only for the smallest moment. And on the good days, the ones where the will of the Universe seems to match my own, oh what rapture!
Of course, this means that even the smallest hiccup during a glimpse of happiness could send me back to the floor in a pitiful heap, but who cares? I'm used to being unhappy. But I'll hang onto that ray of sunshine for as long as my memory remembers it because for at least that moment, I was happy.
And that's why I'm at peace with my despair. I feel more deeply because of it. I don't pity myself for my unhappiness, and neither should anyone else. I'm convinced that I'm experiencing a greater breadth of life than any of those smiley people I sometimes feel myself envying. And what is this life for if not to experience the highest highs and the lowest lows?
(right?)
