happy shmappy

"the atlantic" magazine published an article this summer entitled "what makes us happy?" it is an in-depth analysis of psychiatrist george vaillant's longitudinal study which thoroughly tracked the lives of 268 male harvard students over the course of 72 years, beginning in the late 1930s. vaillant and his loyal study crew committed themselves to the tedious (and oft times, just-barely-funded) project in hopes of discovering the secrets to living a life of fulfillment & happiness; essentially, a life devoid of regrets.

as the subjects of this study were carefully chosen to include a group of seemingly "normal" and promising young men, some of the results proved somewhat surprising. following them throughout the trials and tribulations of career, love & marriage, divorce, substance abuse, mental illness, death, etc., vaillant seems to have concluded that the grade of happiness one achieves in life is greatly dependent not on the amount or severity of obstacles one endures, but rather, the level of maturity one utilizes in coping with these challenges. what resonates with me is something else. the author of the article, joshua shenk, states:

"depression turned out to be a major drain on physical health: of the men who were diagnosed with depression by age 50, more than 70 percent had died or were chronically ill by 63. More broadly, pessimists seemed to suffer physically in comparison with optimists, perhaps because they're less likely to connect with others or care for themselves."

while this mighty little fear has undoubtedly been lurking in the blurry recesses of my brain for some time now, reading it with such clarity is something else. i am so terribly screwed. and here i am thinking my pessimism but a charming quirk.

while the notion of my future as an agoraphobic, delusional, ill-kempt cat lady ala "grey gardens" seems strangely appealing (twisted, i know), i am nevertheless very concerned. i've thus far been exceedingly successful at making myself physically ill with worry and stress; a tragic demise in this vein doesn't seem like much of a stretch. and depression? never heard of it. the article also touches on the idea that positive emotions, or essentially "feeling" the happiness, in actuality makes us more vulnerable than experiencing the negative ones because they are future-oriented and thus put us at emotional risk. the immediate payoffs of fear and sadness, which i know all too well, are tempting. even now as i find myself perfectly content with what life has dealt me, i feel myself yearning for that cocoon, that hazy warm shell of protected bliss.

every gray afternoon in the winter of 2007, my friend john would spare me the horrors of hyde park and drive me to the nearest train from work. there is my down coat, having become somewhat of a second skin for the endless days of frigid temperatures. i imagine myself burning it in a garbage can once summer strikes, and dancing around the flames triumphantly. he shivers and reaches for black leather gloves in the back seat, first rubbing his hands together and intermittently pausing to blow warm gusts of breath. he looks miserable. he explains his misery. i am miserable. i explain mine. we moan in exasperated roars, in unison, in retort. it is still only january, we whine. only february, only march...and each and every day feels not the slightest bit closer to feeling human again, to feeling anything at all. in his stuffy little car we are safely insulated by our commiseration. we will pity ourselves while listening to nick cave and talk about how there wouldn't be art if it weren't for just this. "you know we enjoy this, in our own sick way" he says, and i can not disagree. this is our place, our time. there is ice. and until we thaw our weary bones we will be cold together, worrying only about what mishaps might occur during the short walk from subway to couch.