Happy

I’ve been told for as long as I can remember that I can’t seem to get out of my own way every time I’m on the precipice of “happiness”. But what is happiness? I’ve always wondered what makes a person truly “happy”. The truth is being happy looks different for everyone but you wouldn’t know it in the age of social media.

On Instagram, happiness is posing with your Balenciaga bag that most people can’t afford on an island somewhere in a size 0 bikini with lip fillers and fake boobs while men leave thirsty comments. God, happiness sounds fucking expensive and painful.

On reality tv, the definition looks just about the same. No wonder middle school aged girls are depressed. You can’t escape the same definition of what someone “needs” to be happy in society.

Socials weren’t around when I was growing up until the tail end of high school with the invention of, you guessed it — MySpace (What up, Tom!). So, who on earth could I compare myself to rendering myself miserable? My nearest and dearest friends, my biracial cousins with the good hair and of course the popular girls. Basically, it was everybody lucky enough not to be me.

Siri, play Pink’s “Happy”…

“Since I was 17, I’ve always hated my body and it feels like my body’s hated me. Can somebody find me a pill to make me unafraid of me?”

I’ve actually hated my body since I was 12 years old. But you get the point. I gained weight in the sixth grade because my mother (a struggling single mother), worked late nights and didn’t want me leaving the house after I got home from school. She always called to check so, there was no sneaking out. She not only kept me locked in the house like a true latchkey kid, but she kept the fridge stocked with food. So all I could do was eat to feel better. I got up to about 130 pounds. To give you some insight, I weight less than that as an adult woman.

I went to visit my father for the summer and he suggested I eat “healthier” and forced me to go on runs with him. I guess it was all for the better because no one recognized me when I came home and told me I looked great. So it made me think “Oh, I’m thin and people like me now.” You can guess where that led: Lifelong struggles with eating disorders. Thanks, dad.

I don’t really blame him. He just didn’t want me to be an obese kid. He was like my male Michelle Obama. How was he supposed to know I’d internalize everything and lose my fucking mind?

The weirdest part about struggling with an eating disorder in high school is that I was going in the opposite direction of what body type I wanted. I always had money for the weekend since I was hoarding away the lunch money my parents gave me instead of eating. But I wanted so much to be like my best friend. She was like Jessica Simpson and I was Ashlee Simpson. All of the guys wanted here anywhere we went from Plaza Bonita Mall to Mission Beach. I literally had some fool stiff-arm me in the mall to get to her like I was Ike Taylor and he was Demaryius Thomas. I guess my best friend was the end zone? If you really know me, you’re not shocked that I wrote that.

Anyways, she had the body, the walk, the confidence and beautiful hair. Do you know how hard it is to love your best friend but also envy her at the same time? My emotions were like a fucking tornado and my mind was the trailer park being tossed around. Needless to say, because my mind was out of control I needed to find it elsewhere: not eating. And this continued until I switched schools my junior year. Someone made a comment that I was too thin and my mind went “What?”. I was wearing black jeans in August when school started because anorexics are always cold. But it made me rethink what I was doing. I started to try to eat normally starting with little snacks I brought from home. I made new friends and maintained my friendship with my best friend who lived in the South Bay. I felt happy.

“Seen every therapist but I’m a cynical bitch. Don’t like to talk about my feelings…”

I know what you’re thinking. “Bitch, you’re an open book. What do you mean, you don’t like to talk about your feelings?” Um, I might talk about my feelings on COVID and politics but I won’t let someone within 10 feet of what’s really bothering me personally unless I can trust you. My therapist was no exception. I never told her about how I wasn’t eating, feeling overwhelmed, not knowing how to manage my feelings nor did I talk about my childhood trauma which probably would have solved a lot of that. Instead I talked to her about little things that happened at school. It wasn’t helpful in retrospect. I also stopped seeing her when I turned 18 until I was 23 and in treatment for bulimia. You see where I’m going with this? Someone wanted to help me manage and find tools to be happy but I got in my own way by not being truthful.

“I take another hit. I find another fake fix. Cause it’s easier than healing…”

By this time, I’m around 23-24 years old and a recovering bulimic still trying to stay the course. I’m also a full-time student and full-time employee. I have things to be proud of. Then why the fuck am I so miserable? Because I had ruined a relationship with my insecurities. I was going through a breakup at the time and I was trying to find love which had alluded me whether it be from friends, family or guys. So what did I do to make myself feel better? I had sex with a bunch of randos because by that time guys actually started to notice me. It was a weird feeling and I was ill=equipped to deal with the influx of male attention. I felt wanted for the very first time in my life even if it was for only 30 minutes, tops. It felt good…until it didn’t. I found myself crying alone in the bathrooms of a lot of guys I just met. God, Buddha, Confucius, the magic 8 ball or whoever was definitely looking out for me. I’m very lucky I never came up with AIDS or anything not curable. I’d like to think my guardian angel De’Angelo had something to do with it.

“I don’t want to be this way forever. I keep telling myself that I’ll get better. Every time I try, I always stop me. Maybe I’m just scared to be happy…”

Now that we’ve gone down the rabbit hole of memory pain, what does happiness look like for me? Honestly, at 33 — I’m still not sure.

Right now, I’m grateful for so much — second chances with friends, rekindling love, being in the right headspace to help my family and just trying not to fuck shit up. Stay tuned.

PS - I scarfed down a piece of pizza while writing this.