Almost exactly one year ago, I wrote about the pitfalls of happiness. I had just graduated from NYU, and left the job I’d had for many years, and packed up and moved across the country from New York to Portland, OR. I was in a new romantic relationship with someone I had already known for 8 years, and it seemed like our passionate (if unlikely) reunion was somehow destined by God, and I was so excited about the future, and so happy. It was July, I was falling in love, and I had a million things I wanted to do, and I was confident I could do them all. I woke up every day smiling and ready.
I recognize this pattern of life as the July syndrome, because I’m in it again now. Suddenly, seemingly out of the blue, it is as if my life is going well on almost every front. In a matter of two weeks in New York, I gained enough momentum to find a job for the next year, find an amazing housing situation in Brooklyn, take the GRE (which I’d been talking about doing since LAST July), reconnect with practically all of my New York friends, meet several awesome new people, cut my hair, open up new romantic possibilities, etc. This was after yet another long, difficult winter in which I was sure that my life was a complete disaster, that I was never going to get it together again, would be miserable forever, had ruined all my chances…
It is easy to say that the only lesson here is that my mood/energy is profoundly influenced by light levels, that I should really invest in a good lightbox before winter comes again, or move somewhere with a climate more like the one in which I grew up (bright and hot almost all year). But Mitsu reminds me not to overreact when things seem to be going well.
Last year, I barely even made it until the end of the summer before things “all fell apart.” My relationship crumbled, which in retrospect was largely inevitable, but was certainly exacerbated by the completely unrealistic hopes I placed on it after I decided it was “going well.” I got overconfident in myself and my beliefs, and said some things that caused a great deal of damage to some of my most cherished friendships. Life in Portland turned out not to be as fantastic as I had hoped, once I realized how difficult it truly was to find work there (a problem which had seemed easy to overcome in the midst of the July syndrome). By October, I was so depressed I barely left my room for months, got none of the things done that I had planned to do that Fall, and, because nothing was happening in my life, I took that as confirmation that I was doomed. Then I came out to PA to help my mother, who broke her ankle, and the nature of the situation combined with my own sureness that everyone was disappointed in me and no one wanted to hear from me ensured that I became very isolated, and again, because nothing seemed to be happening, I was sure that my life was an unfixable disaster.
That idea seems completely ridiculous now. In the brightness of July it is obvious that all it takes for things to “happen” in my life is for me to go out there and live it — to talk to people, make contact, do things. “Good fortune” seems to be an ordinary biproduct of living fully, and the world seems to be magical, full of coincidences and beauty and love. But how can I feel that without getting attached to an idea that it will last forever, that it ought to last forever, that it is indicative of some sort of personal charm that belongs to me rather than just being a reflection of the way that things really are, which also includes the darkness of winter, and suffering, and loss?
Mitsu says the only thing I can do is to try to stay grounded, be careful, to pay attention to the ways in which the seeds of future sadness and problems are being planted now, even as I feel happy and excited about the future. These days when things seem to be going well are the time to be more vigilant, not less.