If I’ve learned anything during my short time of actually living like a grown-up, it’s that life is all about celebrating small victories. For instance, having a good day at work; not having to cook dinner because you have leftovers from lunch; or solving a personal international banking crisis without having to call your mum for help. You know, the little things.
These are all good moments, each bringing with them their own brand of fleeting contentment. Unfortunately, I think sometimes these little moments of happiness can pass us by all too easily.
Why is it that when happiness is doing its job effectively, we don’t notice its presence, but when it’s gone we are so quick to feel the heavy emotions that replace it? Sadness. Lamentation. Jealously. More generally, the feelings people try to avoid.
Lately, I’ve been making the effort to actively watch for moments that make me happy. What kick-started this introspection, you ask? A set of letters. Before I left Canada, one of my best friends gave me four letters with envelopes that read: “Open this when you are feeling sad,” “Open this when you are missing home,” “Open this when you start your first solo trip,” and “Open this when you are feeling happy.”
Well, unsurprisingly, all the sad ones have been opened—my favourite weather is grey skies and rain, what else would you expect? And as grateful as I was, and still am, for the words given to me from a friend far away (words that caused me to embarrassingly blubber while reading them), part of me felt taunted by the almost effervescent yellow-chequered envelope that, until recently, remained unopened.
Travelling has, somehow, turned me into more of an emotional basket case than I already was. I don’t know if most of those emotions involve tears because leaving home and moving to a different country without a solid plan in place is (how do I put this delicately) THE MOST STRESSFUL THING I HAVE EVER DONE IN MY LIFE.
Sorry for yelling.
Despite the stressful aspects of this adventure, and the never-ending emotional rollercoaster they’ve seemed to have strapped me into, that canary cardstock drew my attention to a realm of emotions my head doesn’t always like to acknowledge. The light ones. The simple ones. The ones most easily taken for granted.
That envelope intimidated me.
As I discussed in my previous post, existing in contentment is not something that comes easily to me. In the past, my mental health ensured that anything resembling peace of mind was something that remained frighteningly unfamiliar, to the point where feeling “okay” was scarier than the brokenness I was accustom to.
Let me give you a little perspective. Early spring of last year, I hit a low point. As my time in university was coming to an end, I didn’t feel prepared for life post-graduation.
Reasons I didn’t want to graduate:
- Deciding where I wanted to focus my graduate studies seemed impossible.
- Alternatively, finding full-time work in my field felt even more daunting.
- The prospect of not seeing my peers and professors on a semi-regular basis made me incredibly sad.
- I was worried that I would fail when it came to self-motivated learning—that the thing bringing out my nerdy-ness wasn’t something internal, but rather only present because I longed for the gratification of good grades.
What I had known as “life” for the past five years was about to change. My head didn’t quite know how to cope with that, thus I spiralled into a pretty deep funk and, as a result, I stopped taking care of myself. Eventually, out of a place of love and affection, my dad basically told me to get my shit together and call my therapist (he used nicer words, obviously).
After a little over a month of emotional excavation, there was a session that threw me for a loop. About 20 minutes into our appointment, Dr. Fitch looked at her watch, set her pen and notepad on the table beside her, and said, “I think we’re done. Why don’t we do a half session today, and then I’ll see you next week?” Dumbfounded, I agreed, gathered my things, and left her office.
I broke down the minute I reached my car.
After weeks of trying to fix my headspace, I had been given the seal of approval from my therapist. Letting me go early was her way of saying, “I think you’re okay.” She cut our session short because for the first time in almost two years of seeing her, I didn’t need to be there and that terrified me—I didn’t know how to give myself permission to be okay.
That same fear started to resurface when I thought about opening that yellow envelope. I was scared that the state of mind required to open that letter was going to send me into the same ass-backwards tail-spin I experienced last year. What’s worse is that part of me feared I would never get to the point of being happy enough to have that kind of mental breakdown in the first place.
I love how normal my head is.
Knowing how poignant the words contained in the sad envelopes were, I wanted to be able to really appreciate the happy ones. I didn’t want to let my head sully such a sweet gesture, so I took the time to savour even the most fleeting moments of elation as a way to prepare myself. That way, when I finally reached the point of feeling happy enough to open the letter, I wouldn’t be afraid to acknowledge it.
I know, it sounds so simple. Who wouldn’t want to be happy, after all?
It’s not that I didn’t want to be happy, it’s that I didn’t know how to let myself. But if I’m being totally honest, this is because I had never given myself permission to try—my friend’s letter changed that. Not only did it act as an endorsement, it gave me something external to work towards. My search for happiness became less about me and more about being able to read the letter, which, for some reason, was easier for my head to come to terms with.
Now, this doesn’t mean that I’ve magically turned into one of those people who are happy all the time—someone who spews rainbows and shits glitter. That’d be a fairy-tale. No, I’m still the same person with the same collection of neuroses, minus one: acknowledging my own happiness doesn’t send me into a panic attack anymore. And that is, without a doubt, the most invaluable gift a collection of words has ever given me.
Solivagant 