Wednesday’s Child
Wednesday’s Child
Post Published: April 6th, 2016
Guys, not to be a complete Debra Down&Out (because I’m so not a Debbie nor am I ever super down for long) but,
What Is Happiness Even Anyhow?
Once at a party in Bushwick, in a warehouse that had no business being loft apartments (so 2011), a short little man who is an artist (is he really? was he ever?) – who I may or may not have once made out with – asked me why I was so angry. At this same party someone who I was not at all attracted to, but who seemed genuinely interested in me, asked me why I dealt with fuckboys…
But it was the first question that really stuck to me. People seem very taken by my shadow side when they see it. It’s like they pegged me into this one dimensional box, and on paper I am roses and unicorns, rainbows, cupcakes, and whiskers on kittens and so their minds have adjusted to dealing with this one person, and that I should ever deviate from my loosely crafted persona, that I should reveal even the slightest lack of commitment to her almost completely baffles them.
While I can’t totally fault them for not enjoying being confused by my personality changes my major concern is trying to figure out:
“Why can’t I always just get my own way?”
I mean isn’t that truly the better question to ask?
And here I come to happiness because what is this thing? And not like this Buddhist monk, meditation, yogi, New Paltz, granola, Ithaca hippy tree hugging shit wherein we all speak really calmly and slowly and explain our every motivation and thought with “I just feel that… ,” while we smile through our basic and stewing human hatred for situations outside of our control.
Is Happiness Getting What You Want? All The Time?
Or is the most we can hope for basically not losing our shit and falling apart?
What is the happiness that makes you feel alive and empowered and simultaneously super nonchalant and unaffected? What is that happiness that feels like freedom when you run cold stone out of fucks to give? Even the fuck normally at the ready for where someone calls you angry, but instead you’re just like shrugs #ohwell.
I want that happiness.
I find more of that happiness when I blurt out some realness and turn people off from me. I like it better when people dislike me. It’s like this little inner demon in me, this gremlin, this red, leather skinned brat who knows she’s perf even when she’s horrid, and she completely doesn’t care who doesn’t like it, and she delights in her evil gremlin-ness because she’s self-actualized and ridiculous and happy and lives in this rainbow plane of zero fucks. I feel happier when she’s unlocked.
I feel happier when I’m angry, and fired up, and fueled by an isolation from that which doesn’t bend to my will. What is that?
I find myself most empowered and energized by my anger at, and rejections of, people and situations that displease me. Like I need to be set off to power up. Is that a thing?
Is that Mania? Or have I just found what works for me?
Like yesterday when the E and F trains stopped running and I had to take the LIRR to work and I was so fuming mad that I teared up on my way to the station, cursing the circumstances that had led me to this point, to the place and time where I wasn’t just waking up and having my international delights coffee in my country kitchen, in my country house – in the country – about to sit down and start on my 2000 words for the day. Instead, I was there in 34° degree weather on the 5th of April, my hands reddening in the winds chill, my positive vibes shot to hell, my self-confidence even – as it is so delicately tied to everything I do – teetering on the edge of oblivion that the hour lost at my desk would do irreparable damage to my overall job performance, permanently destroying my long term goals of cozy mornings, flavored coffee, and country homes in the country.
God, I was just so desperately enraged and powerless to the situation; not even One Direction was boosting my mood.
Here was the beginning of the turning point: I just gave into it, as you must when it’s 9:15 and your morning commute has only just begun to take solid shape. In the span of an hour I’d had this sort of childish meltdown, which I had to keep contained – crying in the wind – and I accepted the loss of control, and what my fury at the situation signified.
There’s nothing quite like fury recognized, but unexpressed to help a crazy bitch actualize a mission. My country home is not going to come easy. It told me so yesterday. Probably every action and scheme that’s going to get me to flavored coffee and the view of rolling hills out the kitchen window is going to be a fucking nightmare. I mean if the MTA in the morning isn’t purgatory before Heaven…
So, no Happiness isn’t getting my way all the time, having control. Happiness is a burning (or freezing, as may be the case) prick in the ass to madden me to action.
Fury, baby. Fury is my sweet spot.
Yes. I was born on a Wednesday. I read over the weekend that this doesn’t mean I’m destined to be sad and depressed, but more that Wednesday babies tend to be drawn to the darker, sadder things in life. Who knows? But you know I loves me some superstitious folklore. All the better should it rhyme.
