Happiness is such a funny thing, isn’t it? First of all, the word itself should be
reserved for children and the elderly. And “content” is there for the rest of
us. I tend to think that people between
the ages of 12 and 75 who claim to be happy are destined to be hit by a bus. Because one day they will be so distracted by
how “HAPPY” they are that they are going to step off the curb at the wrong
time. I also tend to think that their
happiness is actually willful ignorance because you can’t truly be happy when 8
year-olds kill each other with 12 gauge shot-guns and there is a growing list
of similar atrocities that pop up every second on the damn internet. (Can we all please just go back to morning and evening news and call it a day?) And by the way, why do good people die from cancer while shitty people
get to run for President? Come on, this
Happiness thing is just a ploy, right?
It’s a full-on dream we’re chasing because we felt it once when we
were seven making mud pies in the backyard.
Unless you are a Gardener, who I understand are the “happiest” people in
the world, as you should be and good for you.
To those of you paying extra special attention, you won’t be
at all surprised to hear that I am currently taking 25 mg of Venlafaxine every
morning - an anti-depressant with an anti-anxiety component (or is the other
way around?). Either way, bonus points for
me. And I will just come right out and
say this, they really should put this shit in the water.
Is this too personal?
Am I verging on an over-share?
Maybe I should keep this dark little secret hush hush.
Everyone else does. I had no
idea, until recently, that the moms with their enviable easy-going nature,
their ability to brush off the cries and nags of their screaming children, their
desire to hang out with other moms and other people in general, those with the
wherewithal to take it all in stride when nothing goes as planned, were also taking
a mild dose of something every morning.
And I didn’t come by this little drug easily. I have been working on my shit in therapy for
years. 8 of them, give or take. Obviously I don’t mind talking, sharing,
hashing, and re-hashing (to a point) so I found an amazing woman who listens to me and we revisit my
childhood and I have difficult heart-to-hearts with both mom and dad, accept
where I go wrong, and then I work on it. Scary and uncomfortable at first but I’m happy to have done it. And I recommend it to all my friends as the
healthiest thing you can do for yourself.
(Only the really smart people take my advice!)
One of the things that comes up all the time is
anxiety. I live in New York City, which
has got to be the Anxiety Capital of the World.
My therapist has asked me a handful of times over the years whether or
not I’d like to go on something. I’ve
always balked, saying I’d rather work on my shit and work through my shit than
cover it up, mask it, or drug it. She
understood. But she would go on to say
that these drugs do not change who you are, they can just help
alleviate the anxiety, giving you a chance to know what life feels like without
it. She phrased it as improving my
quality of life and I swear I heard a little “ding!” inside my brain.
A few things came together at once. I learned that depression may run in the
family, so I’m essentially wired to be a sour puss. And then I was at lunch one day with a
friend, a mother of two young kids, one of the kindest and most even-tempered
people I know. I’ve never seen her get
rattled. I’ve seen her get pissed off,
but even when she’s pissed off she’s calm.
I mention to her that I’m thinking of taking something and she tells me
she’s been on something for years to which I said, "But why would you take anything, you’re so….” Ah… Oh…. Got it.
Then there was one last hurdle to cross – the anxiety over unnecessary
chemicals in my body because chemicals cause
cancer. Oh wait.
Fuck it. Sign me up.
(And by the way, I am fully aware, and have made peace with the fact that everything, anything on this planet could kill me at anytime. That bus. Your car.
A biker in Central Park. The air, water, sun, non-organic
fruit, milk with hormones, dairy, meat, fish with mercury, gluten, sugar, Twizzlers, Fig Newtons, and that 8 year old in Texas with his father’s loaded revolver. See how many goddamn things could kill me? Death by anti-depressant might not be such a
bad way to go.)
You would never know it by the snarky tone of this entry (sorry!), but these days I am content, calm, and present. This is a brand new feeling for me and I don’t
know how long it will last, but I wanted to let you know that I am enjoying it.
And, I have a little
help. :)
