It's not often that I am the optimistic or overly-happy individual in a crowd. That's not to say that I am dark and twisty (I've been watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy as of late, so excuse the Meredith Grey descriptors) or that I'm some kind of sad, cup-half-empty vampiric fiend who sucks the happy and joy out of my golden-sunshiney comrades, because I'm not like that. I just tend to be a bit....more cynical.
But then last night happened. I was simply sitting in a car, driving around Northeast Portland with three of my friends who were, rightfully so, heavily complaining, ruing and cursing the recession. Plagued by money problems (Mo' Money, Mo' Problems is so beyond false that it, yet again, makes me question the integrity and value of rap and its lyrical contributions to society), it seemed that my friends had sort of admitted defeat.
"Do you think that this is as bad, right now, as the Great Depression was?"
"Totally."
"Probably."
I piped up; "No way." I could tell, by the silent response that my pseudo-optimistic comment received, that they weren't buying it.
"The Great Depression was far worse," I continued. And it was; unemployment was nearly doubled what it is today, food lines were blocks long and our stock market crash wasn't nearly as cliff-leaping as it was 70 years ago. Our economy, according to the President and his economic gurus, is picking up and eventually, (also according to our country's higher ups) we'll start picking up too.
And, despite my cynicism and typical disbelief in politicalese (That's my made-up word for political speak), I do believe that my life is starting to pick up. Sure, I'm not making any more money than I was a year ago or even three months ago (I'm sadly making much less) but my life is picking up because I am optimistic; even happy, if you will.
For so much of the last seven years of my life I have fought against being happy. Somehow I had managed to do the one thing that my father, a man of sometimes sage, sometimes not-so-sage wisdom, has told me not to do: I let someone or something else control my happy. Whether it was a loser boyfriend, a caustic friendship, an unhealthy relationship with food or an over obsession with running and fitness, I have always let other forces control how I felt. More often than not, I let those outside factors make me live saddled with negative emotions : sadness, guilt, shame, frustration, anger.
But now…now I am in control of my happy. I’m not entirely certain what has changed; there aren’t words to describe the sudden click in my brain that magically switched like binary code from a zero to a one (or vice versa) to make me in control of my happy. Yet something did. Perhaps, in retrospect, my decisions over the last few months – breaking up with my boyfriend of three years, moving out on my own, staying in Portland but not going to graduate school – have helped transform me into this less chaotic, neurotic, psychotic hermit I used to be into someone nearly normal.
I laugh (I’ve been told it’s infectious) more often and I cry less frequently. I go on dates to dive bars and coffee houses, relishing in the quirky joints nestled in the tired parts of the city. I have make-up and baking dates with real, live girls who are quickly becoming my best friends. I run less and am finally in love with my body. I think I’m in love with myself which, in a totally non-narcissistic fashion, makes me the happiest.
We returned to my friend's house to make dinner and relax. While my friends continued their much-needed and therapeutic venting, I started chopping up an aromatic storm in the kitchen, thinking of the words to one of my favorite songs by Regina Spektor (Whose lyrical contribution to society could sometimes be questioned -- the line "Do you remember the time when I only ate boxes of tangerines?" is a good example -- but the following possess solid contributory power), "On the Radio," because they just seemed so damned fitting:
"No this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
And take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take the love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood."
Indeed.
But then last night happened. I was simply sitting in a car, driving around Northeast Portland with three of my friends who were, rightfully so, heavily complaining, ruing and cursing the recession. Plagued by money problems (Mo' Money, Mo' Problems is so beyond false that it, yet again, makes me question the integrity and value of rap and its lyrical contributions to society), it seemed that my friends had sort of admitted defeat.
"Do you think that this is as bad, right now, as the Great Depression was?"
"Totally."
"Probably."
I piped up; "No way." I could tell, by the silent response that my pseudo-optimistic comment received, that they weren't buying it.
"The Great Depression was far worse," I continued. And it was; unemployment was nearly doubled what it is today, food lines were blocks long and our stock market crash wasn't nearly as cliff-leaping as it was 70 years ago. Our economy, according to the President and his economic gurus, is picking up and eventually, (also according to our country's higher ups) we'll start picking up too.
And, despite my cynicism and typical disbelief in politicalese (That's my made-up word for political speak), I do believe that my life is starting to pick up. Sure, I'm not making any more money than I was a year ago or even three months ago (I'm sadly making much less) but my life is picking up because I am optimistic; even happy, if you will.
For so much of the last seven years of my life I have fought against being happy. Somehow I had managed to do the one thing that my father, a man of sometimes sage, sometimes not-so-sage wisdom, has told me not to do: I let someone or something else control my happy. Whether it was a loser boyfriend, a caustic friendship, an unhealthy relationship with food or an over obsession with running and fitness, I have always let other forces control how I felt. More often than not, I let those outside factors make me live saddled with negative emotions : sadness, guilt, shame, frustration, anger.
But now…now I am in control of my happy. I’m not entirely certain what has changed; there aren’t words to describe the sudden click in my brain that magically switched like binary code from a zero to a one (or vice versa) to make me in control of my happy. Yet something did. Perhaps, in retrospect, my decisions over the last few months – breaking up with my boyfriend of three years, moving out on my own, staying in Portland but not going to graduate school – have helped transform me into this less chaotic, neurotic, psychotic hermit I used to be into someone nearly normal.
I laugh (I’ve been told it’s infectious) more often and I cry less frequently. I go on dates to dive bars and coffee houses, relishing in the quirky joints nestled in the tired parts of the city. I have make-up and baking dates with real, live girls who are quickly becoming my best friends. I run less and am finally in love with my body. I think I’m in love with myself which, in a totally non-narcissistic fashion, makes me the happiest.
We returned to my friend's house to make dinner and relax. While my friends continued their much-needed and therapeutic venting, I started chopping up an aromatic storm in the kitchen, thinking of the words to one of my favorite songs by Regina Spektor (Whose lyrical contribution to society could sometimes be questioned -- the line "Do you remember the time when I only ate boxes of tangerines?" is a good example -- but the following possess solid contributory power), "On the Radio," because they just seemed so damned fitting:
"No this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
And take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take the love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood."
Indeed.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment