Happiness: Choice or Not

Once again, someone posted that happiness is a choice. Indeed, I believe one can choose to muddle through life, always choosing to see things in a negative light. One can believe that life is always out to get them - that the stars are aligned against them - that the cards are stacked against them, and on, and on, ad nauseum.

But can one really choose happiness? It would be so simple, so wondrous, even. Happiness, all the time! My dog died - I'm happy! My spouse died - I'm happy! I'm dying - I'm happy! I live with depression - I'm happy.....

There it is...my reality...I live with depression. I do not choose to live with depression. Depression has chosen me. After 2 years of therapy I discovered that I have probably lived with depression since early adolescence. My mother lived with depression. In retrospect, she probably lived with bipolar disorder, though was never diagnosed. I am on medication. I love my medication. For those who claim that medication is "bad" and one should strive for "natural, holistic" treatments, knock yourselves out. I have tried going off my medication. I choose medication. Would you choose to suffer intense pain from a physical ailment without medication? Probably not.

Which brings me to my next issue - is mental illness real? You see, it does fall back to "choosing" happiness. If I can just "choose" to be happy, I just won't be depressed anymore. Then I will no longer be mentally ill. If I just "choose" to walk on my broken foot, then it won't be broken anymore. Wait - what?????

My wonderful wife, P, pointed something out to me several years ago when I was in a funk about having to go back onto medication for my depression. I'd stopped my meds, thinking I was "cured". My doctor and I thought my depression had been situational and that I could wean off the meds and return to "normal". After about 6 months, P suggested I might want to rethink that "no-meds" idea. I'd slipped right back into depression and, after a discussion with my doctor, realized I was clinically depressed. I was sad and disappointed in myself. I felt like a failure. I believed that if I simply "pulled myself up by my bootstraps" (what are "bootstraps" anyway), I could just be happy, dammit. P, who deals with chronic physical illness daily and is on kick-ass meds for it, asked me what the difference was between me being on antidepressants for the rest of my life and her being on kick-ass drugs for the rest of hers? I pondered that for a few moments. She was right, of course. But I had been conditioned, socialized, if you will, to believe that happiness is a choice - that mental illness - especially "just" depression - is not really an illness. It is an excuse; an excuse to get out of work; an excuse to laze around; an excuse to feel sorry for oneself. I felt less a failure once I let P's words sink in. I felt empowered.

I live with depression. This does not mean I am depressed each and every day. I have "kick-ass" meds! Most days I am happy. And grateful. I am grateful for all that I have in life - most especially for having P who acknowledges that mental illness is real and that happiness is not always a choice. And when I am depressed I embrace the sad. Because I know it will pass. And I will once again be happy.