Iona Figures It All Out

I had it all mapped out: What I Need to Do to Be a Happy Person. Lord knows I had enough time to think about it, what with Gertie gone and Drew gone and Marnie and John in their own little love-soaked universe and without Brian to peek over my shoulder and ask, "What are you writing?" with a kiss on my right temple.

The truth was that I wasn't sure if I wanted to be a happy person or not. Being happy would mean that I would have to do both of the following two things:

  1. I would have to patch things up with Brian (a lot harder than it sounds), and once I returned to him, I would have to develop an unwavering faith that my marriage would be the best marriage that could possibly exist, given our location, place in history, socioeconomic conditions, etc. I would not only have to coexist with my kinda-sorta former husband, I would have to believe that I was happy with him--that I was happiest with him. That our marriage was a superlative kind of marriage. That our marriage is the sort of marriage that other people aspire to achieve, the sort that songs and books and movies revolve around. The inside jokes could not possibly be funnier, the holidays could not possibly be happier or brighter, the sex could not possibly be any better with anyone else. Any future children would likewise be superlative children in every way. In other words, I would have to become insufferably smug and self-satisfied.
  2. I would have to give up forever the dream of Drew (also harder than it sounds). I hoped that Brian would be able to assist me in this regard. Only love can cure love, I recited to myself in the car, in my cubicle, on my father's couch while watching game shows. Only love can cure love.

And that was it, really. But again, did I want to be happy? Happiness is not always all it's cracked up to be. It changes you as a person and not always in a good way--making you conceited, complacent, judgmental of those who have not yet reached your plane of bliss. When happy people fall from grace or collide with tragedy, sure, people extend their sympathies, but inside, aren't we all thinking, well, they kind of had it coming to them, didn't they? At least now they'll know what it's like...

Plus, I'm comfortable with misery and depression. I've thoroughly searched its depths, like a familiar cave that you turn to for shelter in the middle of a storm or a gift bag that you are certain, despite all evidence to the contrary or the assertions of the gift-giver, contains just one more present. Unhappiness is my history. I have traditions to maintain.

In the end, I guess, the question is, just who exactly am I living for? Am I living for my mother and my grandmother? Should I plan to honor them by opening my own wrists for reasons that are arcane and a touch metaphorical? Am I living for my friends and acquaintances, who ostensibly want me to be happy but in fact enjoy my miserable company? Or should I march over to Brian's, armed with a copy of an illustrated Kama Sutra ($13.97) and explain to him that I will live for him if he promises to live for me and that I really mean it this time?