Happily Ever After

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, lately, about the phrase happily ever after…

And they lived happily ever after.

Maybe it’s because this past Saturday I attended my boyfriend’s brothers wedding.  And perhaps it’s also because I’ve been made to think of my own happily ever after.  Dating the best man and brother of the groom gives warrants for those kinds of questions.  So rightfully, I ponder.

I ponder because this phrase seems to have become an expectation from people.  Like there is some underlying dream, like the “American Dream”, that if you meet the right person, follow the right steps in life, and everything goes according to some fairy tale plan, that a happily ever after can be earned.  I’m sure some people even consider this something that can be bought.  However, I don’t think it’s earned, bought, or even stumbled upon by fate or luck or random happenstance.  I think happily ever after lives in the state of mind, and nowhere else.

As someone who suffers from depression, happy doesn’t just happen.  I assume that this is actually the case for everyone.  Happiness is a state of mind.  It’s a chemical cocktail.  It’s a sunny day, hitting all the green lights, being surprised with a clean house.  And even though I know there are chemical triggers, I still believe that much of our emotional states are by choice.  With that being said, I’m not denying the validity of chemical imbalances causing chronic or severe depression.  My only experience is mine, and I’ve been able to fight against depression and win.  Maybe not every day, but overall, I win.

I mention this because I haven’t taken the right steps.  I don’t have the money to buy a happily ever after.  And on occasion, I battle with depression and lose to a gripping feeling that my life is miserable and final.  So my only chance at a happily ever after is that one day, when my time comes, I’ll be able to look back on my life and count my blessings.  Because in the end, all I have control over is my outlook on my own life.  It’s not to be measured in things, or children, or years.  It’s not richly ever after.  It’s not married ever after.  Or with children ever after.   The only measure of happily ever after I need at the end of this life is happy, because that’s the phrase, and only I can measure my happiness.

You have to read this…

You have to read this…

You have to…

You have to…

I hate that phrase.  I don’t have to do anything.  I don’t have to eat.  I don’t have to pay my bills.  I don’t have to work, or work hard at that.  I don’t have to be skinny.  I don’t have to be smart.  I don’t have to try.  I don’t have to stand up for myself.  I don’t…

… I don’t have to do anything except those automatic bodily reflexes that I have limited to no control over.  So I don’t have to do anything.  Hear that?!  I don’t have to do (nearly) a damn thing.

I could shout this from a roof top.  I could hijack all the digital signs, billboards, banners, and channels in the world to display this for all.  But it wouldn’t change the fact that I hear this phrase on a regular basis.  Maybe that’s because I go against the grain.  Or perhaps it’s the fact that I have a powerfully sensitive disposition, unlike most of the people I find in my company.  Although, if I was a gambling girl (which I am) I’d say it’s because people are too busy judging the actions of others and less occupied with their own.

I say this now, because for the first time, in a long while, I stood up for myself, and that’s saying something.  As the least confrontational person I know, this is out of my comfort zone, and it was not rewarding.  It has led to an anxiety attack, a point on my work record for leaving early, and a smaller paycheck (just in time for rent).  And all of this because I have to cover a certain position at my workplace… I have to be a shift lead to a shift that is not my own, that doesn’t accept me as their own… I have to hold my head up high and return to the position a second day, even though it brought me to shaking with tears the first three hours…

Excuse my language, but the only thing I have to do is say “fuck that”.

I’m saying this now because I’m tired of hearing it.  I’m tired of people telling me what I have to do.  I’m sorry if you weren’t aware, but you do not know what’s best for me.  You do not know the path that I’ve walked.  You do not know the struggles I’ve faced.  And as someone surviving everyday with anxiety, and most days depression, you do not know the pain and heartache that I can inflict on myself.  So don’t tell me what I have to do.

Stop.

Take a look at your own actions and words.  Think about what you have to do.  Think about what we all have to do.  Be kinder.  Love more.  Laugh more.  Share with friends.  Share with strangers.  Accept others (warts and all).  Celebrate differences.  Bond over similarities.  Be creative.  But what I think is most important, is stop trying to live the life of others.

You have to…

… do what’s best for you.