I have wondered about this. In the middle of all my drama, from large opinionated (and written by me) pieces I don’t agree with to living with voices and eternal doubt, it’s a question that sometimes comes to mind. Now as well, as I’ve received the so-manieth self-help book from my mother.
I don’t read them. I don’t read self-help books, I don’t do mindfulness, I don’t go to coping courses, and I avoid my shrink. It’s as if I deliberately avoid anything that might help me. And thus I wondered: Do I even want to be happy?
It’s not that I believe I don’t deserve happiness. It’s that I believe that my illness took away all that was special and interesting about me. My talent for mathematics, my insight, my hope and beliefs… it was a whole life, a way of life, that got closed down for me. All that is left is my illness, my lack of ethical and moral belief, and my sexual hunger. Things that used to be nothing but extra intrigue in my character are now the whole of it. Take away my illness, and what is left?
I don’t want to be mundane, boring, average. I cling to everything that makes me not necessarily better than, but at least different from the average. To answer the question: no. I don’t want to be happy. I am rather as miserable as I am now every day than happy and forgettable, quantité négigable as they say in French.
Is that rational, or sick? It’s very narcissist, that much is certain. Does that make me pathetic? I think it does.