"Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand."
- The Controller, taken from Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
........
That explains the less dramatic and angst-ridden writing.
When I'd reached that paragraph in the book, it took me into this virtual warp of memories, these pictures of moments in my head of Starbucks planners and little pink spiral notepads and napkins and old receipts and college cattleya --- any paper-type medium I could pour the overflowing contents of my heart to relieve me of the seething cauldron burning, bubbling inside of me with the gush of my pen. And I, who was always hurting (with perhaps an exaggerated flair for the melodramatic), was always writing.
I never thought I could be truly happy unless I burned. (Or maybe, as my husband would used to tell me whenever I would used to go into these "fuck my life, fuck love, fuck-this-shit" ramblings and episodes, in not so many words, I was probably just happy being miserable.)
But I was miserable, nonetheless.
So I wrote and I wrote and I typed and I was always so angry and frustrated and "angsty" (what most people would say, really). O the pain! O the agony! Woe is me! <-------- Life always had that ring to it. Even when my I had first began dating my husband (and when I look at him now and even when I look back, I honestly don't think I could've been any luckier to have found such a good guy. And I mean, real good. Not nasty good (sometimes it's nasty =) but like good with like a good heart who provides me with the good life, you know?), even when I KNEW he was good for me... I still found reasons not to want it. To push him away. To be disgusted by the gross and foreign display of goodness like being good was like having leprosy.
And then finally, after about a year of turbulence and mostly him dealing with "my shit" like a fucking soldier, I postulated, much to my initial chagrin, that:
In order to be content, you had to be boring.
And so when happiness kicked in, it took it out on my writing. (My husband told me once, whenever he'd read my earlier articles for Gadgets Magazine, it seemed I was much more passionate then. If they did seem "more passionate," it was probably because I was still fresh from college and I was carrying my first child ergo I was doubly high on life and ideals and the whole inward belief that I wanted to write passionately... even if it was technology!"
You couldn't really tell that passion was really anxiety from having landed a job in an industry I barely knew, let alone was underqualified for, and after only 2 months of learning the ropes, in comes unexpected love child with almost complete stranger who, for all of my intelligence and reason and rhyme, was never going to be the one for me.
And I had to live like that.
But before I make this long story longer than it already is... basically, my real point or my conclusion/disposition about this whole happiness thing is that... well... people shouldn't be afraid to be happy you know? And people shouldn't be confined to this one definition of passion, that it had to be aggressive and sobbing and angry and "angst-ridden." I look at that warp of memories and notes and poems and journal entries and they all seem so... vague and... unimportant. Not necessarily worthless because I'm thankful for the experience and how they were able to work themselves out to give me the opportunity to learn and grow from them. But compared to what I have now, those creative little gems seem so miniscule. I don't know where I got the emotion and the energy to blow them up more than I really had to. But maybe... I just needed to implode first (like how the Big Bang has to happen before quiet subtle little galaxies can be formed).
Life and love don't always have to "boil over" for it to be worth living and loving. It can be like... put under a bunsen burner or something. Keep that shit warm, medium heat, steady flame, nice and toasty. (And I am totally not making sense, and that's probably why happy people just write about food because it's easier.)
I look at my life now, at my husband who just loves to love me, at my daughter who asks nothing else from God but to make me happy... and for her rashes to go away, at my work colleagues who trust me to guide and manage them despite my in-expertise, at my family who I remain unorthodoxically close and helluh cool with, at my friends who continue to inspire me with their life experiences and are generous with their time and patience, and I think, perhaps all of this is mundane. Then again, I don't think very many people in this world are as content with where they are. So it can't be mundane. And though happiness may not be grand, it certainly isn't common.
And I'm fortunate to have realized my rare blessing.
Now as for my earlier postulation...
That shit is WRONG. So wrong.
Fuck BORING.
And I mean, FUCK-THAT-SHIT.
Anyone who knows me and my fam know that boring is so not in our scope of living and daily grinding. Toned down? Yes. Chill? Fo sho. But definitely not boring.
We make being happy SO. MUCH. FUN.
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