There’s a theory that sometimes people living with trauma or depression or anxiety don’t always want to get better because they’ve become so used to being unhappy that they don’t truly want to be happy. That maybe the self-pity and wallowing and self-destructive behaviors and intrusive thoughts feel good in some way.

That could be the case at times, I suppose. I’ve wondered before if I only know the struggle and it’s become comfortable. That’s something to evaluate in ourselves.

I wonder though if it’s not that we don’t want to get better or be happy – that it feels good to feel bad – as much as it is that we’ve had to claw for the scraps of “happy” for so long that we don’t want the clawing.

Actual, genuine, happiness or joy? That you don’t have to try for? That just exists because your brain is doing what it’s supposed to do?

Fuck, I’d give anything for that.

Walking outside to watch your kids play and just feeling joy about it? Having friends over and just relishing the laughter and conversation? Going on a trip with family and taking in the new experiences with peace and joy and contentment?

Just having positive feelings that you aren’t constantly trying to muster or portray or exhibit or focus on over top of the pit in your stomach?

Yes. Please. Give me the serotonin and dopamine and endorphins and oxytocin.

And there’s a world of thought that anyone can have that if they work at it or do a certain set of steps.

If they work at it enough. If they try harder. If they do more.

So. We ride this wave of hoping one day to have the genuine, actual, not-have-to-claw-for joy, believing for better ahead…

…and feeling more and more and more exhausted trying to get there – feeling more hopeless with each failure.