“I think you’re really unhappy,” says my friend.
“No, I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just trying to save my marriage.”
My friend was right. I was miserably unhappy but somehow admitting this seemed like a threat. It felt like a fall from grace. A terrible admission that I had allowed my life to fall apart.
I rationalized my circumstances.
Yes, I was talking about my problems but they were couple-centric. They weren’t Colleen-centric. Colleen was a happy girl. It was her husband’s resistance to fixing the problems and addressing the way he was acting out. He had begun getting angry when he drank.
I think about the personal energy of my twenties. I’d meet with friends and we’d declare our gospel truth. In a no holds barred, limitless, unbridled, and uncompromising manner.
We would share our authenticity.
“I hate my job, I’ve got to find a new one.”
“I dumped that guy, he didn’t treat me very well.”
“I still think about my ex and it makes me pretty miserable.”
“I don’t know what I want to do with my life.”
“This person at work is giving me a hard time.”
In our twenties, it was remarkably okay to be unhappy. It wasn’t a well-guarded secret, dirty laundry, or shamefully classified information. We didn’t script our lives into a complex mystery.
It wasn’t emotional blasphemy to address our aches and pains.
We confronted our unhappiness. We took it on. We addressed it. Throw it at me, I can do this, I can face off with this mother. We dared unhappiness to take us down because we knew it wouldn’t.
Then we get older.
We stop opposing the beast. We endure it. We live it. We let it fester.
We rationalize it.
Sure, I hate my job but it’s great money. My boss treats me terribly but I really love the people I work with. I know my marriage isn’t the happiness but the grass isn’t greener. I’d really like to start a new career but I think that ship has sailed.
Whatever the malady we make excuses.
But unhappiness finds a way out. In unpleasant words, weight gain, or the bottom of a wine glass. Unhappiness seeks a companion when we ignore it. It holds hands with things that insidiously take us down.
I did a decent job when I was going through my marriage problems.
My unhappiness found a way out in words. Not that I love that but they weren’t angry words. They weren’t dialoguing that took my pain out on another. They were sharing words but they bordered on complaining because I did it for too long.
Because I wouldn’t admit the severity of my situation.
I wouldn’t confess the depths of my individual unhappiness.
During my abusive five-year divorce unhappiness found a new friend. The wine glass. Pinot and potato chips and cabernet and crackers found a new friend. Weight gain.
I hit the happiness trifecta.
Words, weight, and wine.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t have a problem with drinking but I had always associated wine with happy times. I had never come home and said to myself I could use a glass of wine. I mean never. If I had a rough day I would take a bath. And those chips and crackers?
Chocolate was never safe in my home.
But they could be held hostage in a cabinet and I would never free them.
Only candy had to fear me.
I had finally addressed my unhappiness and initiated a divorce. But I couldn’t free myself from a controlling man. The financial vulnerability of being a stay-at-home mother led to the length of my divorce. My ex-husband held all the cards and he played every one of them.
I’ve learned a lesson from the combustion of my youth and age.
We must entertain unhappiness. If not, it becomes a houseguest that never leaves. We must immediately tend to our emotional aches and pains. We shouldn’t brush them aside, hide them, or rationalize them.
Because unhappiness finds a way out.
In more unpleasant ways if left untended.
It seeks companions when we ignore it.
In angry words, weight gain, or the bottom of a wine glass.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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