Random ramble: Is happiness overrated?

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.  

 

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