The Collateral Benefits of Misery or Why the Pursuit of Happiness isn’t Good for the Soul.


The Collateral Benefits of Misery or Why the Pursuit of Happiness isn’t Good for the Soul.

I’ve had a couple of busy weeks at work, both jobs, and I’ve enjoyed it mostly, even though some of it was stressful. But waking up this morning I felt the full weight of the default depression land on me like a big slobbery dog who’s pleased you’re back. All the petty concerns I’d put on hold while I was rushed off my feet came back and had a pity party in my head. My teaching job is currently in some jeopardy as they are moving premises and it’s going to be a lot harder to get to work; I’ve resolved that the first near miss as a car clips my bicycle signals me quitting. I love teaching, I really do; it’s one of my talents and in many ways, I am wasted where I work. If you’ve seen Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society, it’ll give you a clue about my style of teaching; but it also means that even had I the correct bits of paper, I’d be sacked in a week in a state school. So I am on the sharp look out for a new job, one that is year round, and which doesn’t have the substantial drawbacks of my current one (of which I will not speak here)

But my return to sullen misery has woken me up to something that slumbers much of the time. That’s the realisation that even changing jobs, changing homes or whatever significant life change I might sometimes crave is only a distraction from my real work in this world. Six months into a new job, or a new location, and the same old issues come creeping back, like rats who realise the ship was not sinking after all.

That’s a bit of a scary realisation. It means that anything I pursue, success, fame, wealth, whatever holds no power to change anything internally. If I become a NYT’s bestseller, nothing changes. If I get the job that seems to fit every talent or skill, nothing changes. Oh for sure my mood might alter and improve, I might even be happy for a while. But nothing deeper changes.

You see, any real change has to come from within, not from anything external to me. I’ve never been someone who found retail therapy anything other than a disappointment, and while I have certainly chased success as willingly as any writer, I’ve started to grasp the fact that such success does not and cannot make me anything other than momentarily happy. I can see now that my lifelong pro-wrestling match with the Black Dog has saved me some expensive mistakes.

Chasing things because you believe that they may make you happy is a futile exercise, and one that frankly underpins the whole economy of the prosperous West. It is endless and caustic to the human soul, because it is tantalising and drives you on to seek more and more and more to less and less satisfaction, and eventual bitterness.

What then can bring peace to the troubled soul? What can tame the Black Dog and make it an ally and not an enemy?

Well, my current theory is that it is meaning that brings peace. It’s certainly how people survive the kind of catastrophic experiences that send many over the edge and down into insanity.

It’s only a theory but is one borne out by such luminaries as Viktor Frankl, and also by personal experience. I can accept and even value my own sufferings when I realise that they have shaped me to be the person I am now, and the riches of compassion and empathy that have been uncovered within me. They’ve made me a far less selfish person than I would otherwise have been.

Native Americans have a saying, something they speak as a prayer when they enter the sacred space of a sweat lodge. They say, “For all my relations,” as they enter, and by that they do not mean their mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters and so on. They mean every one of us humans, and all the animals and trees and plants, right down to the Stone People, the rocks we kick aside and split asunder.

So my prayer today, in honour of all that I have endured as a human and all that I will endure, is that it is done in honour and support of all life, all creation, and that I will find meaning in all.

For all my relations.”


Drama and confusion

I’m going to try and stay away from the gory and the medical but basically I woke up this morning in a pool of blood. As you can imagine it was a bit of a shock; there is history to this but it’s so complex and also personal, so I’d rather just skim over that, for the sake of my male readers especially.

I rang NHS direct for advice and the advice was to stay in bed, take it easy and drink plenty of fluids, plus very specific advice about how much was too much when it came to losing blood. I’ve followed said advice and am now feeling much better, and the blood has slowed to a sensible amount.

But while I was sleeping this afternoon I dreamed I was looking at birthday cake candles, the kind you put on a cake for a baby. I found one that was shaped like a  letter one and as I was lighting that, I burst into tears. I woke up crying bitterly.

On Thursday, as well as it being a hospital visit to the gynae department, it was also the 2oth birthday of my only child. On my hospital visit, I was asked if I had had all the children I wanted. One of the possible routes to ease some of the problems I have was also something that would also end any thought of future children.

Well, I’m 43, and while I don’t actually want more kids, I also don’t want to make a decision that totally and for all time rules that out. The clock is ticking anyway, and I’d be very surprised if I could ever conceive again. But even so, it’s a question I don’t want to answer and this morning, amid the pain and anxiety, I was also very afraid I might have to answer that question and make a decision.

You see, when I was younger, I did want a big family. At 19, I thought 10 was a nice round number. It’s silly, and I knew it then, and by the time I did have a child I knew how absurd it was. I’m not a motherly sort; I had to do everything by logic and research, trial and error.

There’s a line in a Paul Simon song, Further to fly… “tired as a dream that wants to die”. It sums up how I feel right now. I’m not able to make that sort of decision but I want to be free of the pain and illness too. I don’t want more children and yet I don’t want to rule it out.

I’m so confused. I’ve read a lot from Retired Eagle about the midlife crisis; now obviously his is from a male angle. I’m wondering if my current soul searching is a female equivalent, whether my recent reminder of my reproductive sell-by date is a part of what all of us face at a certain age, but narrowly focussed on the most basic of human drives.

Dangerous Age

Dangerous Age


I’m at a dangerous age:

Too old to be young,

Too young to be old.

Women like me straddle extremes,

A foot planted squarely on each.

I might do anything:

Run away to Bali,

Find adventure or a vocation,

Or stay home, learn bridge

And buy a shopping trolley.

I’m not done being young yet;

I’m not ready to exchange

My running shoes for slippers,

I’m not ready to cut my hair,

Colour away the silver threads

And save up for Botox.

I’m at a dangerous age:

Are you ready for this?