The Choice of Being Happy: It's not a choice. (Part 1 of 2)

What's included in quotes is not attributed to any single individual. I have heard these arguments made time and time again from more people than I care to count, and the problems with such statements are discussed on a variety of feminist and progressive blogs. You are quite welcome to disagree with me, to dismiss me, whatever, but again, this is my life and my opinions will not change because I've experienced this and I've spent a lifetime learning so much about this. This is something I'm passionate about, but at the same time it's difficult for me to discuss without becoming emotionally involved, so chances are I'm not going to engage in debate much over this. I'm putting this out there not to argue, but to offer my experience and to maybe help others understand why just getting help isn't as cut and dried as doing. In short, I've said my piece with this and the following posts and I'm done for the night, perhaps for a long time. I won't fight anymore than this.

Over on another Social Network Far, Far Away, there's been talk about finding happiness/being happy and whether or not this is a choice people can actively make. In other words, do people choose to be miserable and/or ignore opportunities for happiness?

When the subject came up, it wasn't in a mental illness/mental health context, but it's honestly hard for me to view this question outside of that context because I dealt with so much bullshit surrounding this question. (However, I think even in the absence of mental illness I can't say that people actively choose misery over happiness, I really can't.) I wish I had a nickel for every time I heard, "You need to smile more," "You need to just cheer up," "Listen to happier music," "Eat peanut butter" (true story), "Just think happier thoughts/Be more positive," "Say positive things in front of a mirror," etc. I wish there was a stadium big enough for everyone who thinks this about Depression and other mental illness so that I could sit there and scream into a microphone over and over that IT'S. NOT. THAT. EASY.

I'm not sure what's more depressing: That people believe this stuff or that I actively tried doing all those things hoping it would work, that I could be Fixed (as if I'm some piece of machinery that's in need of repair) or Cured(TM). If it really was a question of just thinking more positively or putting on a happy face, there'd be a whole lot of therapist/psychiatrists out of work and I'd have been the Queen of Happy-Land in high school. If I'd had a choice between contemplating suicide, feeling hopeless to the point that I couldn't stop crying, or feeling happy or at least comfortable with my life, I'd have chosen the latter in a heartbeat.

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The Choice of Being Happy: Getting help isn't so easy. (Part 2 of 2)

What's included in quotes is not attributed to any single individual. I have heard these arguments made time and time again from more people than I care to count, and the problems with such statements are discussed on a variety of feminist and progressive blogs. You are quite welcome to disagree with me, to dismiss me, whatever, but again, this is my life and my opinions will not change because I've experienced this and I've spent a lifetime learning so much about this. This is something I'm passionate about, but at the same time it's difficult for me to discuss without becoming emotionally involved, so chances are I'm not going to engage in debate much over this. I'm putting this out there not to argue, but to offer my experience and to maybe help others understand why just getting help isn't as cut and dried as doing. In short, I've said my piece with this and the previous post and I'm done for the night, perhaps for a long time. I won't fight anymore than this.

I've talked about the idea of whether a person chooses to be happy or unhappy and how such a notion is wrong in the context of mental illness. Now I want to expand on that and address the concept of choosing happiness or misery in the form of choosing to get help and how sometimes that's just not an option for some people.

Some reading this are going to claim I'm naive, that I'm ignorant of the fact that there are people out there who are just miserable assholes who live to suffer and don't get help because they're selfish/spoiled/whatever.

No, I'm not naive. I'm compassionate. At thirty years old I have spent the past twenty-six years witnessing the effects of mental illness on others and on myself. I also have had quite a bit of experience in the realm of psychiatric care as both a patient and a family member of a patient. I've also realized that we don't all live on an equal playing field and I have had the privilege of access to decent care. I do know a little bit about which I speak, so don't waste my time and yours if all you can say after this is that I'm just being a stupid idiot or a bleeding heart who just doesn't understand the reality of life. No, this is my reality. I have lived it.

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And Now For Something Completely Different (And Cheerier)

Okay, a happier post.

Seven years ago today, at 9:22 PM, this eight-pound two-ounce baby entered into my life:



He screamed and cried for about two hours straight. Two days later, he was still crying, but he managed to be quiet long enough to take this picture:



The crying eventually stopped when my milk came in and he was the happiest most well-adjusted baby any mother could ask for. That little baby is still my baby to me, but he's now a little over four feet tall and almost out of fingers on his second hand to show how old he is. His life hasn't always been easy and he's had some challenges, but he too stubborn to give up.

My baby has a love of video games, books, and all things Spongebob. He's also a bit of a geek and is already picking up on some of the ins and outs of City of Heroes from watching me play and he likes Star Wars and is showing an interest in Dungeons and Dragons. He reads better than I did at his age and he brings a smile to the face of nearly everyone he encounters. He's still a happy child (when he's not tired or cranky from being sick) and he's taught me more about myself and about life than I think I'll ever be able to teach him.

My little baby still loves to cuddle with me on the couch to read a book or watch a movie, and he always has a hug for me when I pick him up from school or when he wakes up in the morning. It makes me a little sad when I pick him up and I realize that in another year, I might not be able to carry him to bed when he wants it. He's getting so big.

But he'll always be my baby.

Happy birthday, Kiddo. I love you more than I'll ever be able to say.