The other day, I wrote a long jumbly mess of words about happiness. Contentedness. Joy. And living. It wasn’t because I’d just had a girls’ night or a Bible Study or a playdate. It was because the theme of unhappiness has been one that I have been gathering words on over the last few years. Because it truly is a fairly common theme. Like, especially in the post-college, early motherhood years. The third decade. The years of birthing people. And managing careers. The ones where you are supposed to be adulting. You are supposed to be self-sufficient. But sometimes, you just wanna call your mom up, go sit in her lap, have her rub your back and give you some Dimetapp. Uhhhh… okay. Maybe it’s just me who finds the thought of Grape Dimetapp to be extremely soothing… hmmmmm.
But really, people. Here’s the sitch. I think that everyone feels so much gosh darn pressure to achieve happiness. Like to hold it in their hands and rub it all over their faces and chests like sour cream on a nacho bar {again. Maybe that’s just a me thing?!}. To really get in their pores, breathe it in, get to know its musk, and never let it escape their grips.
And I’m writing on it again today. The happiness expedition. The voyage to clinch it and feel victorious. But here’s the thing. And it’s not the first time I’ve written it. Or even a totally original thought, I suppose. But I want to tell you the secret… happiness is fleeting.
That’s right. Happiness is NOT a constant. At least I don’t think so. And neither did the movie, Inside Out, right? Like, Joy didn’t get to be 100% of the brain. Anger was there. Disgust. Oh. I cried during that movie. So good. Ahem. I digress.
Back to the point. Happiness is not a foreverymoment thing. Happiness, I think, can be a state of being. Or a stage of time. Or a series of events. Or a circumstance. People can make you happy. Even things can make you happy. But happiness, I think, comes and goes. For everyone.
Shortly after I finished my second chemo last year, I remember feeling indubitably happy. Like so so full of joy. And warmth. I had cancer. I had no hair. I was sick. But I. Was. Happy. I was happy because my chemo was on track. The second round had gone more smoothly. And I believed, for the first time really since having been diagnosed, that I could kick the shit of that cancer bitch. It was a time for happy.
But it was also a time for contentedness. And that. That. Contentedness. That is what I think should be the goal of those who are struggling or are in a funk. To live a life and merely exist, I don’t know if that’s really living. But to find a way to be content with your lot. To be content in your circumstances. To be content with your story. I think that is never a fool’s errand.
But it doesn’t just happen.
Before we moved from our old house. Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer. After I’d carried the three boys in my belly. I found (DUN DUN DUN!!!!)… an old diary. Only, it was not just an old diary. It was (DUN DUN DUN!!!!) a collection of letters I’d written to the hubs when we were first dating. And seriously. I. Was. Batshit. Crazy. I wish I could say I was joking but even though I appeared happy. Even though I think I even thought I was happy. I was bananas and toast. I was 174% insecure. I felt dumb. Fat. Ugly. I didn’t know why, on earth, this smart perfect dude was into me. And on. And on. And on. It was alarming to go back and read it. And then I threw it in the trash because really, I was 195,600 times embarrassed by my 20 year old self. But even crazier to me now is that I really was happy then. I can remember it. I was really in love. I was young. My skin hadn’t started to revolt on me yet and form a turkey waddle under my neck. I could go out for an evening and only spend $5. I had an entire household of girlfriends to commiserate or laugh with every night. And I had landed the man of my dreams.
I was happy. But looking back. I was completely discontent. With who I was. With who I might become. With how I might become. I was happy but I didn’t have one dram of confidence.
And that tells me this: I’d rather be content than happy.
Happiness is like gravy. And I looooooove gravy. Especially all over my fries on the side of a hot beef sandwich. Or on homemade biscuits with sausage in it. MMMMMMMMM. So hungry right now. But truly. It’s just gravy. And after awhile, the gravy starts to congeal in your stomach and shove up through your esophagus and you forget the euphoria that occurred to make the happiness. Because well, it ebbs and flows.id rather have just the fries or just the biscuit. I don’t always need the topping. Especially if it means it’s just gonna feel like sludge when the shine wears off.
But thank God that boy stuck by me through my crazy. Through the three babes. The three screaming babies who, to be perfectly honest, hijacked the previously happy-go-lucky woman my husband knew and changed her into Medusa. He’s stuck around through a miscarriage… a time where my brain and my uterus were being controlled by tinnnnnny little RAGING hormones who were not in agreeance with how it would all play out. And then, through a cancer diagnosis. This guy… he’s been with me through my happy. Through my sadness. And my roller fucking coaster. And through my journey to contentment. And sometimes he’s played a role in the destination. And other times, it’s been my own path to walk. But our relationship has been an essential cog in my finding contentment in the phases where I’ve needed to get out of a slump.
I’ve talked to friends who are dissatisfied with the arrangement of things between them and their spouse. Friends who feel annoyed. Or who feel distant. Or bored with jobs. Relationships. Motherhood. Life. As we’ve chatted, I’ve noticed one thing. I’ve been where they’ve been. I’ve been searching for happiness and goodness, only to feel lonely and searching. But the thing is: I’ve had cancer. They have not.
That’s not a one-upper people. This isn’t something I wear like a badge of honor. It’s just the facts. I truly thought I was going to die. Like a little over a year ago. I thought about never seeing the hubs again. I thought about what song we might listen to last. I thought about how he would go on to parent our collective children. I thought about how the clothes would all get switched out for sizes and seasons. I wondered how it would feel for him to kiss someone else’s lips eventually. And to find a mother for our children. I remember believing that I was happy it was me and not him. That the kids would need him more than they’d need me. I thought about how out of all the people, this guy decided to choose moi to tie his horse to (yes. That’s a euphemism;).
It was so real. That feeling that I might actually have to be the one to say goodbye, that I only wanted to ever have to say hello again. So real that even if I find myself bored or tired or in a funk or I wonder if the hubs is happy with me as his wife, I remind myself that we’ve been through LEGIT shit together and still fall asleep holding onto one another at night and wake to each other with a sticktoitiveness in the morn {sometimes after coffee for me. What can I say? I love coffee.}. I choose to do alllll this life stuff with him. He chooses to do it with me. It feels like, at this point, God planned for us to be together. Almost 12 years of marriage+3 years of dating and I think it feels like we are meant to go the distance. Because I feel like he’s on team Ashli. And I know I’m on team Adam. And even when we’re having a rough game, I know we will be able to work through the tape together and figure out how to do better next time. There’s a teamwork to us.
Do you feel that way? With the person that you sleep next to at night? Do you feel like, even if you are putting them on the bench, you still wanna be on their team?
You can’t just fabricate circumstances. Your emotions can’t just do a mock accident or situation to get them to that place where they are fear factored into being grateful. Or into actually visualizing what it would be if all that was gone. That’s just not our human design.
My husband and I dated starting when I was 19. I had dated maybe a handful of people prior. We got married when I was 23. He was the first person I slept with. The only person I’ve slept with. He’s seen me bald. He’s slept next to me in a hospital bed. He’s changed out my drains. He’s gotten up with our children at night. He is not just a husband… he’s my friend. I have been with him through the stomach flu. Through grad school. Through job ups and downs. I think he’s sexy. I laugh at him and with him. And I like him even more without hair than I did with {both him without hair and me;)}. And we were bold enough to feel like we were sufficient enough humans that together, we ought to make some of our own humans to wrangle.
And humans. They are a whole thing. A whole thing that then, you add in the house. The children. The careers. The schedules. The meals. The working out. The piles. The laundry. The income and bills or the lack of income. The friends. The family. Oh. And the sex. You add it all together and there are a lot of pieces that need to be put together for contentment, amiright?
And all the sudden you’re saying, “geez. We are not 19 anymore.”
And you just don’t wanna, right? Like you don’t wanna make dinner, corral the children, sign the homework folders, get through bedtime rituals, do your own thing and THEN get down to Funkytown. Like doing it all sounds like way too much some days. But it feels like everyone else is doing it ALL. That they are all content and full and perfect. That they all loooove their spouse to the moon and back. That they have never thought about fleeing, just for a vacay, to Tahiti, without a moment’s notice.
And comparison is, as they say, simply a thief for joy… especially if someone is already down and out.
The hubs walked past me at a party the other night, grabbed my bum, and kissed me. One of my friends laughed, “He is the only one who does that! I mean, who else does that?!” And I laughed back. To me, it’s normal. He loves me openly and affectionately, he always has. It’s always been our thing. And it’s never been weird to me. We’ve been a hold hands, kiss on the cheek, snuggle on your shoulder, couple. Heck, someone thought we were newlyweds in church the other day. But it’s just because I think the hubs is so cute. And funny. And he makes me laugh all the time. So I act like a kid. It’s not because we love each other more than other people love each other. That’s just how we love on each other. That’s just our vibe.
But my friend who commented on it… the reason I laughed… I don’t think she would ever want that to be their thing. I don’t think that she wants what we have. I don’t think she’s the PDA type. I think she wants her own version of it. And just doesn’t know what that version is. But she is hoping that they’ll find it again. In the midst of kids and life and other mysteries. Whatever it is. And they will, I think. It just takes time and circumstances. And, I think it takes effort. Especially when we’re exhausted. Or when our children have been jerks. Or our dog threw up on the carpet. Or the wine bottles have run dry. Because we are not who we were when we started this romance thing. We are not the same people who took our vows. We are each changed by every day. But that’s kind of exciting, too, right?
We all have to decide if we want to change ourselves or change our circumstances. And those two things, though they seem like they may be the same, can actually be completely separate of one another.
I’ve been on Lexapro for the last year. A combo anti-anxiety/anti-depression med that they prescribed after I physically couldn’t even make it through an hour of the day without breaking down in tears. This is something I am no way secretive about or sorry for. Because I think I was allowing anxiety to steal my joy. I often joke that I should have gotten on it 18 years ago. Because while I don’t know exactly what it is doing now, the anxiety that I used to run into has nearly dissipated. I mean, sure, I get anxious trying to navigate my children through the Pumpkin Patch parking situation. And I don’t enjoy the idea of cooking for an entire for Thanksgiving… my issues with feeling controlled by irrational worries seem to be very well managed. I think I’m less snappy at my husband and the kids. I think I feel more of the moment. I have a certain level of joie d vivre. And I don’t even really freak about the mess of kids and stuff and motherhood and on and on. I just go with the flow more. And it feels like my anxiety no longer influences my daily level of contentment. People get so up in arms about anti-depressants or other meds but this girl, she’s a sure convert. I believe my husband has to like me more on it. I know I like myself better. In fact, I haven’t told him that I think he thinks I suck at motherhood for over a year and a half. I’d say that’s a positive outcome, right?
So. For the love of my husband and Lexapro, I do have to admit: I am a pretty content gal at this point. I have friends that honestly give me life. I have these three crazy boys who live with me who are at pretty damn good ages right now. I have a church and spiritual life that gives me fulfilling direction. I enjoy the sexing with my husband (I know. I’m such an overs hater. But if we’re already here, might as well…) even though I am now getting a DOUBLE dose of ovary suppression shots and taking the hormone blockers daily. Like it is something I plan for and get fired up about. I laugh… daily… with people who I just adore. I have a kitchen to eat fresh foods in and even bake crappy baked goods in if I get up the gumption. Enough clothes to need to wash and fold them. Indoor toilets to clean. Parents and family who are effing incredible. A chance, many days, to work out my body. I feel like ME again. Like a person without cancer. A person with hair! A person with a beating heart! I have a social life again where I can talk with people and be with people… drink with people, eat with people, and not worry about getting sick. I am a person who wants to get out of bed and see what the day has to offer. And while I am honestly struggling with my body as of late, I am about to have new boobs… so there’s that. I don’t have a lot of money. I don’t have a perfect house. I don’t have the mess all cleaned up and swept under the rug. Sometimes I am annoyed with the hubs and he is annoyed with me. But overall, the vibe in our tribe is bueno. And I don’t know what’s coming next. But I know I’m excited for whatever it is.
I share all that, not to brag. But to tell you that I think I have been where you are. If you are in the place of unrest. Or unhappiness. Of not feeling content. I’ve been there. I have. I think I’ve been sad, unhappy, depressed, anxious, and stagnate. But all the things I mentioned above… those seem to be all things that make being content easier. But partially because I can remember the true thought of death, being content is probably easier for me. And that cannot be bottled and sold to make everyone find perspective.
But happiness, it is a day by day choice, I think. It can be influenced by a new pair of Uggs or a tube of GrandeLash MD. It can be driven by a fly hairstyle or reading someone’s profound written words. It can be emphasized by a really great workout or makeout sesh. And it can be achieved by having alone time to meditate or pray. But happiness can feel heavy. Like something that everyone must have. But they don’t. You are not alone though, in your pursuit of happiness. You might be able to find a way this week to get there.
I want to keep writing on this idea of happiness and contentment. Especially in marriage. And with babies. Because I think it’s something that women of all ages and backgrounds are grappling with on a daily basis. Feeling like a used pop can circa 1994 that was crushed up in the garage, dropped in the bottle of a recycling cage, and left — as small as it could possibly feel — to be recycled again into something bigger, better and stronger. Women feel deflated. Exhausted. Tired. Unwilling or uninterested in being touched. Or in wanting to have one more thing need her at the end of the day. Women. Feel. Stretched. Men feel stretched, too. And pressured to be everything that they are charged with by those around them.
And they just don’t know that others feel it, too.
I think that happiness, looking for it, might be a fool’s errand. Because the moments that bring the most happiness sort of happen upon us when we least expect it. Happiness can find you. It can. But contentment, it’s something to work toward. You will find yourself on its shore. Your boat will not be capsized. You will have remained in one piece. You will be the captain of your ship again, soon. And you will think of how resilient you are and how much badassery you possess. It might not happen when you want it to. It may take some time to reach. But you are a work in progress — always. Rowing back and forth, through the ebb and flow, to find the satisfaction of just getting to be in the boat. And you will know then that the journey to find your own self is the most important piece to becoming the content version of you. The one you are climbing and clawing through each day to meet, face to face, and remind her that you’ve never stopped searching for her inside of you. Not even for just one day.
