Happiness is an Elusive Bitch
I’m struggling to not be sad
I am not having an easy time of it.
This is where guilt over my relative privilege would kick in — no one is dead, or in jail, or hospitalized; I have a roof over my head and food in the fridge, blah, blah, blah — but fuck that.
I am not happy, I am not even content these days. I am depressed and in treatment for it; finding small joys is getting more difficult; and, frankly, I would like to spend my days alone in my room and crying, but I’ve neither the time nor space.
I had a dream recently about a small, happy baby girl. You know this kind of baby, the little one smiling up at everyone in public. The one that giggles and reaches for her parents whenever she see them. Unhesitatingly delighted to be in the world.
I don’t know if in the dream I am the baby, or if I need to reclaim this baby. She is the happiness that is missing in my life, that much I feel strongly.
So what’s making me unhappy?
In no particular order:
Late-stage capitalism. This is a combination of not being happy in my current job, not being happy job searching, needing to work full-time for health insurance, and not being independently wealthy. It’s exhausting and demoralizing.
Menopause. If you are a member of my family, or otherwise don’t want TMI, you may want to skip this part. Technically, I’m not in menopause yet. However, at the beginning of this year, my libido dropped off a cliff and sex became painful. More than uncomfortable, a little lube’ll do ya — it straight up hurt to have intercourse. Now, as this has been a favorite activity of mine for quite some time (as well as my husband’s) this has been problematic for many reasons and on many levels.
I am working with my gynecologist to see if we can find a solution to what amounts to age-appropriate vaginal atrophy, which is horrifying but can be treated, to an extent. The painful intercourse part can be addressed, but the absence of a libido less so, at least from a medication standpoint.
Caretaker burnout. I’m tired, beyond tired, of all the things that go with having a family (sorry, family! I love you all). So many decisions and logistics to figure out, so many requests to fulfill or not, the consequences of saying no to stuff, the consequences of saying yes to stuff. And yes, fledglings are getting ready to leave the nest, and my children do have chores and responsibilities, and my husband is a help (please do not come after my husband; he’s got his own plates spinning). But even acknowledging the pluses don’t bring me relief. I feel bad for my 12-year-old, and this burnout is probably one reason he is having a feral summer. I don’t know if that’s problematic or not.
Did you know that the suicide rate for white women is highest between the ages of 45 and 64? And it’s probably because of this shit. (Do not worry, I have no intent or plan. But I sure understand the impulse.)
(I was working on this essay when the news about Sinead O’Connor’s [Muslim name, Shuhada Sadaqat] death broke, and it has not helped my sadness factor. But that will be a different post, if I can even do her and her influence on me justice. If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, please call someone at the suicide hotline at 988. You are loved and needed.)
What makes me happy?
Writing, writing, writing. And I am not writing. It took me an age to write about my son’s feral summer, and I am not happy with it at all. But I had to get something out there. I was hung up on it, and making no progress. I just had to release it into the world. Because I had to publish something, anything.
I am not sure what is up with this block. I have ideas, and things I want to write about, I just can’t get them out of my head. I can’t focus. (Did you know that brainfog is another symptom of menopause? Now you do, you’re so welcome.)
Live music. However, between ticket prices and logistics, I haven’t managed to get out to see shows much this year. I’m out of touch enough that I often hear of shows I would’ve liked to have seen days after the fact. It’s another one of those things I would have to research and plan, and look, I joined Hello Fresh for a significant amount of time because “research and plan” is another way of saying “make decisions” and I’m just less and less willing to do that work.
Tang soo do. This Korean martial art, which I started in 2021, is probably the best thing I do for my health and mental well-being. It has become non-negotiable — I do this at least twice a week, and I seldom let anything interfere with that cadence. The hour or so afterward are the best hours of my week. The physical exertion makes my brain happy. I should do more exercise like this, that requires focus and makes me sweat. Endorphins, man. They rock.
One other thing I do very much enjoy, and that is easy, is sitting outside in the evenings, reading a book and watching birds come to my feeders. My backyard is very pleasant in the evenings for beer, birdwatching, and books. That’s what I got. It’s not exactly a happiness baby, but it will keep me afloat as I find my way to reclaiming her.
