I've Never Been (Un) Happier

by Shaheen Bhatt

  The advent of technology has also affected the way that positivity culture affects our lives.

  We live in strange times.

  We live in times of cat GIFs, microwave challenges and videos of perfectly manicured hands kneading slime for 3 minutes that have eight hundred thousand views.

  We live in Internet times.

  And in these Internet times, we’ve somehow managed to turn everything, including how we feel, into social currency.

  The fallout of the wars that gave birth to the positivity movement was that people became consumed with happiness. It kick-started an almost single-minded obsession with happiness. Hope and positivity became the things to aspire to.

  Happiness was fetishized.

  For those of us who have come since—there’s been little to hurt about.

  Yes, we’ve lived through and witnessed horrific acts of terror but many of us have been lucky and have been kept safely away from the horrors of war.

  In times of real war, it took a special sort of brave determination to vow to be peaceful and happy when people were suffering or dying all around—being positive and optimistic in the face of adversity was a mark of strength and bravery because it was hard to be those things.

  Today, in the aftermath of that Flower Power culture we somehow believe that our base state is meant to be happiness and any state other than that signals something is wrong.

  So in an age where happiness is the norm, being sad and admitting to it is an act of courage and a mark of strength.

  Because it’s hard to be sad in a happy world.

  Just like it was once hard to be happy in a sad world.

  Just like we did with happiness, we also fetishized sadness.

  Social media is full of examples of the perpetuation of the positivity narrative. Entire lives are being whitewashed and photographed from flattering angles, so much so, that even the so-called highlight reels of our lives are no longer real highlights and are moments that are largely falsified.

  But now there’s a new narrative slowly creeping up and taking hold—the suffering narrative. Social media is slowly becoming a platform for numerous people, myself included (my first open mention of depression was in an Instagram post), to talk about the various mental health challenges that they face. The Internet seems to suddenly be overrun with talk of depression and anxiety and to a lot of people, I’m sure it seems like half the population has begun to experience these things overnight.

  Now, this is obviously not the case—depression and anxiety have been around for as long as we have—and while depression is on the rise, one of the reasons that we are suddenly overrun with accounts of it is because through the efforts of a few pioneer ‘over-sharers’ and a collective fed up-ness, we have finally begun to see the value in sharing.

  I honestly believe that the upsides of this avalanche of sharing we’re experiencing outstrip any potential downsides by miles, but, I still think, we need to have a very clear internal awareness and understanding of why we share, when we do.

  There’s a long-standing notion that it’s romantic to hurt. The tortured artist is one of the staple figures we’ve been raised on. ‘The brightest flames burn the quickest.’ ‘Turn your pain into art.’ Those are all just ways in which we romanticize pain. We make pain desirable.

  Pain and suffering birth creativity.

  Pain and suffering birth inevitable triumph.

  Pain and suffering birth heroes.

  And who doesn’t want to be a hero? Mankind has been raised on stories, we are what we are because of the stories we tell, and every story has a protagonist, every story has a hero. And, that’s what we are conditioned to chase and aspire to—heroism, through crisis and tragedy and suffering.

  Here’s the thing though—in all these stories, the heroes don’t think that they’re heroes. They’re not doing any of the things that they’re doing to be heroes. Whatever they’re doing, they’re doing to survive.

  So many of us unconsciously aspire to the tragedy of being misunderstood because it supposedly leads to heroism or being touted as brave, and I did too, for a time.

  As a teenager, I took my angst and spun a romantic tale of untold drama, sadness and misery around it. In this tale, the only way I won, was by not winning. In this tale I succumbed to the darkness within me and the world finally recognized what they hadn’t while I was here. That I was meaningful. That I did good. That I was in some way heroic.

  How sad that I once believed that my only value was in being tortured and falling victim to that torture.

  Talking about how we feel, whether it’s in a quiet conversation, a book, a song, an article or a post on social media is one of the most important things we can do for ourselves and those around us right now. But, it’s important to know why we’re doing it.

  Pain has value, yes, but pain and mental illness are not the same thing and mental illnesses can’t be seen as a means to an end or a route to greatness. It’s not, and it’s vital we understand that.

  The room is in disarray.

  Clothes, shoes and objects at random lay strewn all over the floor and the messy, unmade bed. The table beside it is littered with half-empty tubes of lip-gloss and about six brands of dried out mascara.

  Every light in the bedroom has been turned on, its brightness giving the false impression that it’s 4 p.m., even though it’s closer to nine.

  From somewhere on the bed comes the muffled sound of a vibrating phone. It goes unheard thanks to the peppy, upbeat sounds of ABBA blasting through the small speaker in the corner of the room.

  At the heart of this disarray is me, my lips a tad too glossy. My hair is being clamped and tugged at by the arms of a straightening iron as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror doing a little jig to ‘Voulez Vous’. (Unrelated: I really shouldn’t have watched the Mamma Mia musical.)

  I rock back and forth, moving and singing along with the music as I force my hair to behave the way I need it to. My fingers accidentally make contact with the straightening iron and I squeal in pain. I turn on the tap and thrust my hand under the cool stream of water. This does nothing to deter the dancing, however, which embarrassingly continues. The energy in this room is markedly different than it was a month ago. Looking at me now it’s impossible to imagine that I could be anything other than the excitable, bubbly entity I currently am. The only remnants of the Feeling’s visit—a strip of sedatives and my journal—lie inconspicuously by my bed, unnoticeable to all but me.

  In the brief moment of silence leading up to the next ABBA song (‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’) I hear the phone announce itself and rush out of the bathroom to answer it.

  The phone call ends in seconds with a hurried, ‘Be down in two minutes.’ With a final look in the mirror, I fiddle with my hair and flash myself what I think is a winning smile. It’s the first time I’m leaving the house, ready to engage with the outside world, in weeks, and I’ve all but forgotten that fact.

  The Feeling has left, for the time being, and now that it has, it’s almost impossible to remember what it truly felt like while it was here. My mind has chosen selective amnesia and wiped the worst of it from memory so I’m left to contend with only a hazy fear of the Feeling’s return.

  In fact, I almost believe I’ve seen the last of it. Almost. I’ve been here a hundred times before, relaxed and forgetful, but I know now from all those previous times that it won’t last. As surely as I’m happy now, I will be sad tomorrow. As surely as the Feeling has left, it will return. But that’s okay, because my life is no longer about running away from depression. It is about walking alongside it.

  I grab my bag and waft out of the bedroom door, leaving it wide open behind me. Above it, the clock, restored to its home on the inside wall, steadily ticks time away.

  Let It Be

  The way I’ve told it, it may seem like I’m suggesting my whole adult life has been nothing but a steady stream of misery with absolutely no bright spots. On the contrary, my life so far has been a
roller coaster of highs and lows, full of the joys of true love, happiness, friendship and companionship. But this is what depression does; it robs you even of joyous hindsight. It poisons your mind and obscures all the good in your life. All the positive, alive moments of life seem like distant, long-lost memories and all that you can see in the rear-view mirror is the pain you’ve left behind.

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I remember despondently asking my father one evening, many years ago. We had lapsed into a comfortable silence during an unrelated discussion when the question came bursting out of me.

  ‘Why don’t I know how to be happy?’

  My father surveyed me intently for a moment.

  ‘And why do you want to be happy?’ he asked.

  It seemed like an absurd question.

  ‘What do you mean “why”?’ I shot back. ‘Everyone wants to be happy.’

  ‘Why?’ he pressed.

  ‘I don’t know . . . who wants to be sad all the time? It’s not normal, and it’s exhausting.’

  He smiled slightly.

  ‘You want to be happy because society has convinced you that so-called “normal” people are happy all the time. You want to be happy because you want to fit in,’ he said simply.

  ‘And why should you fit into the parameters of some made-up definition of normalcy?’ he continued, as my brow furrowed in thought. ‘You’re exhausted because you’re always pretending to be something you’re not. You’re constantly trying to reach this non-existent, ideal state of emotional well-being. It’s not real. You’re being set up to fail.’

  ‘So then what do I do?’ I asked miserably.

  ‘Take off the mask. You aren’t happy? Fine, you aren’t happy. One day you will be. And then you’ll be sad again. Accept that and stop wasting your energy chasing something that doesn’t exist. You can’t spend your life feeling bad about feeling bad.’

  That sleepless night I pondered over my father’s words. He was right. The more I tried and failed at being content the worse I felt because I was failing at yet another thing.

  This realization for me was the beginning of genuine acceptance, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that most of our problems in life stem from the quest for permanence. In this age of instant gratification we want everything in our lives to come without an expiry date. We want everything to be permanent—relationships, love, beauty, youth, happiness. But the truth is, permanence is an illusion, and like everything else in life, happiness also comes and goes. Trying to be happy forever is like trying to stop water from slipping through your fingers. It’s not possible, and the only way forward is to realize and accept it.

  The only permanent fixture in life is change. Change. Change. Change.

  And oddly enough, it’s this one truth of life that causes me so much distress and it is also the very thing that helps me feel better. On the one hand, it’s the awareness of constant change and transience that sends me into a spiral of anxiety, while on the other, it’s hugely freeing to realize that nothing I have now, not even my emotional state of mind, is going to stay the same.

  I chose to accept pain, even though I hated it. Pain, up to a certain degree, is good. Discomfort is not a bad thing, and it’s one of the few emotional states that encourages growth. Physical exercise involves discomfort, but it’s an example of a good sort of pain. Pain that helps you grow. Mental and psychological aches, when they’re not severe, are good for you in a similar way. It doesn’t feel great while it’s happening but you are better for having lived through it.

  Happiness is a beautiful, enjoyable feeling to have, and we should, by all means, enjoy it while it lasts. But to me, it’s always been the least transformative of the emotions. Happiness is a one-note emotion that doesn’t challenge you in any way. I’ve learned so much about myself and who I am over the last sixteen years only because of the discomfort I’ve endured. The state of mind I was in, forced me to question everything and that’s where learning begins—with questions. It is in sadness that I have travelled to the depths of my soul and been acquainted with its weather-worn exterior. And it is in sorrow that I have learned to tap into the abundant life force held safely within.

  For a lot of people acceptance signals failure or resignation, but in my understanding it’s quite the opposite. The only way to solve a problem is to accept that it exists in its current form. And, solving a problem doesn’t always mean eliminating it entirely. For many people like myself, depression is an ongoing affliction, and it isn’t something that can be completely stamped out. Acceptance also means I had to readjust my value system based on the limitations that depression caused. For me depression is debilitating and when it’s present, I’m unable to function. I had to come to terms with the fact that my mind was different and as a result of that so was my life. I couldn’t push pause on everything and hold out for complete recovery because if I did, I would be waiting a very long time.

  I am who I am in the now, and I have to work my life around that. That isn’t giving up; it’s adjusting to the reality of my condition and giving myself a higher chance of living a successful life by not chasing after unrealistic goals.

  This sense of acceptance also eventually led me to something wonderful and transforming: gratitude; a profound sense of gratitude for what depression has given me, rather than what it has taken away.

  They say that in order to experience true happiness you have to have first felt pain. I am certainly no stranger to pain. I’ve experienced a great deal of it, as have so many of us. But the wonderful upside to experiencing all that pain is the deep appreciation I have for moments in which my life and mind are devoid of pain, and moments that even (shockingly) contain joy. The big-picture vantage point I believe I have, the one that has always underlined and highlighted the futility of life and the imminence of death, has also quietly done something else to me. Over the years it has discreetly, without my knowledge, introduced me to the things that truly matter. It has made me aware of how little the many things we place so much value on actually matter. One of the strangest things about living with chronic depression is living with the knowledge that it’s always in my future. No matter how good or peaceful I feel right now, it’s always lurking around the corner. Walking around with the fear of when my depression will return is terrifying, but it’s also extremely humbling as it serves as a potent reminder of the truly meaningful things in my life. It has, bizarrely, made me a calmer person.

  Depression has given me perspective. My notions of success, beauty, fame, power—ideas that controlled me for so long—have all changed. I’m not entirely immune to them—I’m only human—and there are many days on which feelings of inferiority take hold of me. But on days like that I just need reminding. It has magnified and multiplied the empathy within me and it has fanned the sparks of creativity. It has taught me how to be alone and how to find comfort in myself. It has made me love more fiercely and with abandon. It has not simply made me tolerant of the differences of others, it has shone a light on the beauty of that dissimilarity. It showed me that just because you don’t understand something it doesn’t mean it’s bad or wrong or that it needs to be feared. It showed me that most of the anger and negativity around us stems from fear, and it showed me kindness is the only way forward.

  My story is not the story of someone who walked through the fires of hell to come out on the other side unharmed and unscathed. My story is not the story of someone who survived to then disappear into the mountains and live out the rest of her life in peace and tranquility as someone fixed and healed. That’s the unrealistic version of life we all want to live. The one where we freeze frame at the end of the movie and the words ‘and she lived happily ever after’ appear on the screen in pretty loopy handwriting.

  That’s a fairy tale.

  And I refuse to be co-opted by a fairy tale.

  Perpetual bliss does not exist and anyone who peddles the belief that it does, or tries to convince you that there is a secret path through
the woods that leads to an oasis of unending peace and happiness is either deluded, or a liar.

  For too long we’ve been convinced that the emotional fairy tale—the perfect state of emotional well-being—exists, and that it’s tantalizingly close but just out of reach. We’ve been convinced that it exists and we’ve been convinced that there’s something fundamentally wrong with us for not being able to attain it.

  It’s high time that we realize that there’s nothing wrong with us.

  There’s something wrong with the fairy tale. Perpetual bliss does not exist, and saying that does not make me a nihilist.

  I sit on the same see-saw that we all do and it continuously goes up and down, shifting between darkness and light—it’s the same for us all. Some of us simply stay down a little longer in a dark that’s just a little darker.

  Transience is something we’re all so afraid of, and we live in perpetual fear of a new, different reality.

  But thank God for transience because even though it means that happiness doesn’t last it also means that pain eventually passes.

  It means that neither heaven nor hell are permanent.

  There is nothing glorious or freeing or romantic or lovely about depression. Depression is a monster, a villain and thief, but even the worst of experiences teach you something. Depression has taken a lot from me and it has also given me a lot, but only because I eventually demanded it. I demanded my lessons and I took them head on.

  ‘You must not allow your pain to be wasted, Shaheen,’ my father said to me. I chant that quietly to myself—‘My pain must not be wasted,’ I say—and I try to learn, I try to do. I grieve and cry and hurt but I also take my medication and go to therapy. I watch my soul being bent and twisted into painful, unnatural shapes and marvel at how I’ve never seen it from those angles before. There are still days and weeks and months when I am also consumed by depression, when I forget all my lessons, when I forget everything but the pain. And that’s also when I turn to the very idea I’m afraid of: transience.