“I’m shit-scared of being happy. Closer it gets the
edgier I become”
The doctor looked at the gentle face of Esme
Collins and the words ‘shit-scared of being happy’ meandered around his
synapses in a lazy fashion as if there was indeed a peg for this coat to hang
on but he couldn’t choose which door it was behind.
“What does happiness feel like to you, Esme?”
“Erm…nervous, anxious, sort of edgy” She squirmed
in her seat as if to demonstrate the meaning of these words.
“It makes me feel like a calamity is just around
the corner so I might as well bring it on myself, get it over with”
Dr Phillips, a good medicine man who truly wanted
to help his patients, wondered what state of mind it was to be scared of being
happy. Did that mean your comfort zone was misery? or just the numb blandness
to be found in anti-depressants?
Dr Phillips did not know. He pretty much knew his
parents had been ‘depressed’ though they didn’t talk about it in such terms.
‘Quiet desperation’ was a phrase that suited them perfectly. Old school. Just
get on with it and tell no-one your business. Acquire the things of life that
bring you comfort and never be late for your work. No-one ever spoke of this
fear of being happy, but it probably applied none-the-less.
He remembered his
Dad, his ruddy cheeks and sad smile. Resigned to whatever it was he was
resigned to. What mad dreams had raged
in his head? Was he ever truly young? People weren’t in those days. There came
a time very early on when you started wearing the uniform of oldness. In his
dad’s case a suit or a blouson for comfort.
Esme’s grandfather would have been wearing a bunnet
at fourteen and pit boots.
Their two worlds knew not each other. And yet? The
common bond of humanity.
He wanted Esme Collins to be comfortable in her
happiness.
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