Someone, I suppose you could call them a friend, recently asked me if I was happy. I of course said, “no”. But what struck me was how I said it. With a scoff to be exact. Almost proudly.
Do I find it beneath me? Is it being constantly told “ignorance is bliss?” Or being reassured that my anxiety and depression were due to a “heightened awareness” (intelligence)? Why do I find happiness so very ordinary?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a martyr by any means. And maybe this is because I’ve been depressed for so long but, I at times find it, satisfying. It now defines who I am and I feel as though it grounds me. Maybe I’m worried without it I’ll suddenly start tanning or taking selfies.