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This year I fulfilled a lifelong dream of becoming a published novelist. The whole process of getting my book “Migration Songs” ready for print was a daunting one. My jewel of an editor saw me through the ups and downs, delivering endless pep talks to get me over the hurdles of insecurity. One minute I’d be fine, the next, sunk, but she always knew how to keep me moving from sunk to relieved. I felt like I never depended so much on another person for my mental health.
The novel is published and selling well. After a long lean stretch, I am bringing in some money from a project or two that I’ve been waiting on. And I have the support of my family and friends. But somehow I seem to be struggling with feelings of emptiness and futility.
On the surface, I have nothing to be depressed about. But does depression have to be “about” something?
We have been taught that the propensity for depression can be partly genetic and partly attributable to early life experiences, and it is well-recognized that the condition is not always situation-based. But for a long time I have believed that if I were able to change my thinking, I would be able to avoid depression.
I have consciously attempted to exchange negative thoughts for positive ones, successfully navigating a trip to Russia in 2006 on the basis of encouraging self-talk. It also helped that I was taking my medication as prescribed, as I continue to do today. But the feelings of spiritual loss have not abated.
I know I have been stressed-out lately, from dealing with certain people in my life, and because of money woes. I have also been feeling lost because of not having a clear work schedule. I shouldn’t be surprised… these are familiar feelings, and familiar scenarios. But I suppose I thought publishing my novel might just create a new kind of happiness that would not easily disperse.
Just as depression is not necessarily situation-based, neither is happiness. There may be nothing in the world that can make me happy, and only one person in the world who can—myself. And maybe, there will be times when even I, however much I work on thinking positively, may not be able to pull myself up out of the muck.
I once thought gratitude was the answer, and that if I could be grateful for what I have, the good things in my life, that I would magically be happier. It’s possible that I have forgotten to act on that lesson. But it’s also possible that there is no magic bullet, that there will be times when we just can’t seem to turn our dark moods around.
I’m going to keep trying the things that have worked in the past to increase my happiness, and the things that seem promising. But now that I am older, I am also prepared to live with a certain amount of darkness and pain.
The quest for happiness seemed like a worthwhile one, when I was young. It still seems reasonable to hope for happiness, but perhaps it is not so reasonable to expect feelings of happiness to be the inevitable and lasting conclusion of getting something “right” (whether it be thinking or attitude or being good or living a certain way).
Happiness may well be the by-product of seeing beauty in the world and other people. It may be something which must pass, the way anger and sadness do. It may be that some people have a natural talent for happiness, while others have to work at it. And it may be that our memories of happiness can feed our souls with as much light as actual moments of happiness do.
I have been happy, and have no doubt that I will be again. I also know that the times in between will not kill me, and perhaps most importantly, that they are not a punishment for having done something wrong. I am open to the idea that I can change something in order to be happier but I will refuse to assign blame to myself if I don’t achieve the kind of happiness we all hope for. Happiness, after all, is not a test, but a state of being that I believe we are all born to recognize, enjoy and long for.
My editor probably doesn’t realize she was also a kind of happiness coach for me while I was revising my novel. I got by on her kind and enthusiastic words until the next wave of despair hit. Maybe I can learn to be my own shrink and cheerleader, or maybe I can simply take what comes and deal with it then.
I’ve never liked unhappiness, but maybe I can learn to endure it a little, while waiting for the next batch of happiness to wash up.
Like shells on the beach of my life.
Anna Quon is a Nova Scotia-based writer, and a much-cherished ongoing contributor to Irked Magazine. To purchase her critically-acclaimed debut novel click here.
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