Is happiness a verb, a skill, or both?
STRUGGLE FOR HAPPINESS
For a long time, too long, I believed that I was looking for happiness, actively searching it, when in reality I was waiting for it to knock on my door and present itself, and I’d just embrache it, and all would be well. I didn’t realise that it doesn’t work that way.
For years, I felt confused about myself. Every teenager goes through an identity crisis – it’s part of growing up – but mine never seemed to end. It lasts still. I don’t know who I am, or how much of me is who I pretend to be for the sake of people I care about.
I’ve made some pretty important discoveries about myself, but only ever fragments, the parts of yourself you fill out on forms, or use to introduce yourself to someone new, or to be part of a group.
When I was a teenager, I listened to metal music. I loved the music, of course, but there was more to it than that after a while. I never felt I truly belonged to that ‘scene’. I loved it, though, because there’s so little judgement and so much acceptance. I desperately needed open-mindedness and acceptance. I felt comfortable in that world, and I loved the music, and it kept me going in a way. It was a safety net for me. It also provided me with that sense of identity that I was craving – the band shirts very clearly stated my preferences, and it put me in a group, in a box. I needed a box, a label, because it gave me an identity, and it meant I was someone. I pretended that I belonged, but I always knew that I never truly, fully did. I had a relationship of giving and taking with it, but it was never fully me.
On the inside, I hated myself. I’m not entirely sure why, but I absolutely loathed myself. I sank in the deep dark and it was a struggle to climb out. I felt very unhappy, and have felt that way for years on end, all through puberty. I felt like there was no place for me in this world, and I had no right to be here. Putting myself under the ‘metalhead’ label at least gave me a place, and people who knew me.
During these years of a lingering sense of depression, I was convinced that if someone would just love me, I would be fixed. I would be happy. Of course, that was an illusion. I did meet people who loved me, but I didn’t believe them when they said they did, and I suspected ulterior motives. Why would they love me? I couldn’t understand why anyone would – I hated myself too much, and it felt impossible that someone else would not hate me. I grew convinced they were lying and they needed something from me. In my defense, my school life worked that way – at first I was bullied, then I was ignored, unless my help was needed academically. I grew wary of friendship, and at some point became relieved that things worked this way for me, because at least it was clear and I knew where I was standing.
The only problem with it was that I stopped believing in the possibility of someone liking me and loving me for myself. I grew overly suspicious and didn’t believe anyone who said they loved me. I would test them. I’d lash out and be angry, moody, downright impossible. If they truly loved me, as they claimed they did, they’d accept it. That was my train of thought.
Of course, the only result was that I pushed people away. This, in turn, seemed to proove my point – I was unlovable. Vile, a freak. I felt empty, worthless, lifeless and drained.
When I did meet someone new, I’d cling to them desperately. I’d give myself entirely and it was always very overwhelming for that person, and inevitably, there came a point where it was just too much, and it chased them away. Once again, I felt my point was proven. I was not worthy of love, nobody would ever truly love me, so I could never be happy.
HAPPINESS AS A VERB
But it doesn’t work that way. You don’t find happiness floating with the wind, or growing on the trees, and it doesn’t come with someone who loves you. It became clear to me when reading an interview with Etienne Vermeersch recently – happine...
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