Happy or Not!

As a child, I didn’t hear the word “happy” mentioned much—my father had TB and was in and out of sanitoriums, my mother cleaned houses and managed a boardinghouse, and we were on welfare —for which we were grateful, but it was not much to be happy about.

When I got married at 21, I thought I was happy. Looking back, it was more mental than emotional…more like what I was supposed to feel on one’s Wedding Day. It wasn’t until much later, in my early thirties, with two kids, earning my BA at Hunter College, and in therapy trying to determine who I wanted to be, that the word happy entered my consciousness as a serious consideration.

Behavioral scientists have spent a lot of time studying what makes us happy. Happiness isn’t something that just happens to us, they say; everyone has the power to make the changes in our behavior that will lead to a happier life. Not necessarily, I say. If that were true, a lot of more of us, myself included, would follow their playbook and apply ourselves to the task, instead of wondering how to, waiting so long to, or working so hard to.

For most of my adult years, except for those I went through getting a divorce, I felt content and satisfied with life, which was fine, but I couldn’t say I was happy. I wondered why? Was something wrong with me? Other than feeling happy on special occasions, happy was a word that didn’t hold up on a regular basis.

Then I came across one of Robert Frost’s poems, “Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.” Bingo!

That’s how I have defined and experienced happiness for the past 50 years. It comes and goes. It doesn’t last long enough but I know it when it happens, like when I was helping my kids do their homework; watching them get married and become parents; and helping them raise their children, the way my mother helped me. Frost was right, I thought: Even though happiness wasn’t a constant, its height was enough to make up for its briefness. It was enough.

Then, just last year, soon after Richard died, I began feeling “happy.” Instead of feeling content with life, which had felt fine, I felt happy, which felt better. Instead of answering “fine,” when asked how I was doing, now I said, “really good!” But why? I didn’t know how I’d feel after Richard died, but I never expected to wake up one morning and feel as happy as I did. Not the highest of happy highs, like when your heart starts beating joyfully and feeling like it may burst with pleasure. No, not that. But a wonderful, welcoming medium high that feels stable and sustainable.

Why now? Why not when I had growing children and a loving marriage? Perhaps I was too busy being satisfied being content, and not busy enough spending enough time finding happiness. But it’s not easy to find happiness, even if you try hard, as so many behavioral scientists seem to believe. Not everyone knows how to go about it and, then again, maybe not everyone needs to find it. Maybe it’s okay to settle for just being happy once in a while.

Some will think I’m a pessimist to think this way. Some will think I’ve been settling for contentedness, and not shooting higher for happiness. But pessimism doesn’t mean the glass is always half empty; it allows you to face the down side while finding the upside. Nor, I’ve learned, does optimism mean ignoring the reality of a dire situation. I guess I think of myself as a realist, or dualist: One who can experience positive and negative thoughts at the same time.

Over the past year, I’ve gotten know what life is like without a mate. I live in a happy place, with my loving family, good friends, and worthwhile volunteer opportunities in the neighborhood. I am in good health (for my age) and able to live the good life on social security and pension payments. I feel more fortunate now than ever before. Probably because although I had expectations about what to expect about being married and becoming a parent, I didn’t know what to expect living on my own; I had never lived alone. It never occurred to me that I might be happy, so I haven’t tried to be.

But now, almost a year later, I am.