Happiness

It's not because it's Monday morning that I'm sitting at my desk, crying. It's not that anything bad has happened (it hasn't). It isn't even (I don't think) because I haven't slept yet and now can't because I have to go teach in 4 hours and I haven't showered or washed my hair or prepared my class yet.

It's because I spent half the night (the half after I finished working and sending snarky e-mails to clients who seem pissed off with me for no reason) watching episodes of Mad Men and for some reason, the last one I watched - the last episode in series 1 - has just reduced me to a blubbering wreck.

Don Draper's banging on about selling nostalgia via the Kodak slide projector and it's revolutionary carousel. He sees images of his happy life. Peggy has a baby and sees her happy future fall apart around her. Betty Draper sobs with unhappiness to a 9-year-old boy. All the characters are unhappy, they're all dissatisfied with their lives. Don ends up sitting at the bottom of his stairs, alone, while his wife and children spend Thanksgiving elsewhere; Peggy is alone in hospital, not even wanting to hold her infant son in her arms.



And I'm blubbering. Am I really so unhappy? In truth, no, not really. I have a home, I have two beautiful little girls, I have a job I don't hate, I have friends and (some) family; my life is OK. Better than OK, really.

But I'm falling apart all the same. With the girls gone, I've fallen apart more or less completely, and if I hadn't had work to do, who knows how far this would have gone? I've eaten poorly, and at ridiculous times; my sleep patterns remain owl-ish, I haven't been out of the house since Thursday afternoon...

I know I have to get a grip, turn myself around, realise, deep down, that my life just isn't that bad. Sure, I'm lonely, and scared of having to spend the rest of my life alone. But even if that turns out to be true, it's not the end of the world, and I have so much else to be grateful for.

I know all this. And my ever-rational mind knows it. But my heart? Oh, my heart... it refuses to accept that I'm probably happy enough. It refuses to see the cup as half full, and prefers - always - to not only see it as half empty, but worse: precariously placed on the table and liable to fall and smash into pieces at any moment.

I guess I need some kind of help to get me through this, but I don't have the time, or the money, or the courage to go and see someone. I flail along, as best I can, snapping at my lovely little girls, being mean to them, shouting at them, screeching at them; sobbing for "no reason" at any given time, fucking up the happiness I should just be enjoying.

It's just... seeing men and women, having fun together, makes me yearn so much, not just for intimacy and sex (though that too), but most of all for that complicity, the oneness of being two, the companionship. To have someone that makes me feel special, interesting, beautiful, attractive...

I'm pathetic, I know I am. And I should just listen to my mind, telling me that my life is pretty good and that I should be thankful for that. But my heart, oh, my heart, it does cry so loud...