When Happiness Attacks!

From the time I can remember, the days surrounding New Year's have always depressed me. I was a depressed kid as it was, and ever since I was aware of what "New Year's" meant, the days leading up to it have always made me unaccountably sad and mournful. There's absolutely no reason for this. There was no seminal event at that time of year that triggered bad memories, no particular emotional issues surrounding the holiday season, (I'm generally pretty indifferent to Christmas), no grand existential concerns about the turning of time. Everywhere I've ever lived, the weather was always dull, cold and gray in varying extremes during that time of year, but not even that was ever enough to cause such hopeless angst. It's just something that's a part of me, and it's been the same every year--totally predictably, I fall into a crippling depression somewhere this side of Christmas and New Year's, which lifts the second the clock turns to midnight on the 31st. It's like I've been weirdly cursed by some demented, highly specific fairy-tale figure who decided that I shall be utterly drenched in a darkness of spirit during the last ten to fifteen days of every December: "Bwahahahahahahaha! I hereby command you shall be immersed in blinding despair and powerless against it for ten whole days! Aaand, than after that, you know--feel however you want. S'up to you."

After about a solid week of this, on New Years' Day, I awoke with a sense of relief and lightness. I felt good, uncharacteristically optimistic and relaxed. I got up early and worked on my novel for hours. I took a long, fast walk in the cold winter sun, and realized I was craving lemon chicken soup, so I went to the store and bought all the ingredients and whipped it up and didn't even care that Mr. Typist said it was "a good first effort" even though I've made that soup, like, twelve times before. (It's been awhile, is all. And it got a little overcooked. But it was my soup, and I loved it for what it was.) Then I worked on my novel some more, and as I was sitting there pecking away, a really odd feeling came over my body. I realized it was happiness--deep, rich, peaceful happiness. And I realized that body simply didn't know what to do with this feeling. It was so unfamiliar that my body didn't know where to place it, where it should settle. It was fighting the feeling not because it didn't want the feeling, but because it was so unpracticed in how to host it. I sat there, looking on in wonder at this beautiful feeling buzzing just outside my skin, and noticing my body not blocking it exactly, but more feeling it out tentatively, holding back a little, wanting to be sure this was okay. 

In the end, there was no dramatic splitting open, no joyful reception, just a moment of curious observation: Oh, this feeling is deep happiness. Oh, I see my body is unfamiliar with it. It was an interesting experience, one that I remain mildly detached from. I suppose I should be somehow sad that this happened, that at my age, happiness has been so elusive my body doesn't know what to do with it, but I'm not. I feel okay about it. I feel that I could not have earned such a pleasure without knowing wild pain, stupefying grief. My body will get there, my body will know what to do with happiness in due time. I will just keep opening the door when it comes over, and fumble my way through helping it to its favorite chair. It's just as equal and welcome as my despair, my depression, my fear, my anger. Come in, come in. You're new, you're unfamiliar. I would love to get to know you better. 

--Kristen McHenry