If It Makes You Happy
why is it so hard to allow yourself to do nothing
How many times during this pandemic did I find myself curled up on my couch watching an episode of a tv show I’ve watched a hundred times already because it brought me comfort when I should have been doing something, anything else? Too many times. And how many times did I just let myself sit there without guilt, without feeling like the other things I had to do were more important than finding some comfort in a storm? None.
I’ve never been able to just relax. I’ve never taken time for myself where I didn’t feel guilty while doing it, or feeling later like I wasted my time. I could have been mopping the floors or washing my car or editing my novel. Instead I was watching Homer Simpson pilot a monorail again. Instead I was re-reading a Calvin and Hobbes anthology I leafed through a hundred times before. I wasn’t doing anything constructive and that’s a waste of my time.
I suppose this is partly the fault of both my father and my grandmother, who spent the majority of my childhood chastising me for reading when there were so many other important things I could be doing. Reading was important to me, I tried to tell them. But there were leaves to be raked and meatballs to be made and probably homework to be done and I was slacking off.
The pandemic and its subsequent fallout has left me tired, weary, depressed, and anxious, like a good majority of people. I have been trying to seek comfort where I can, trying to find the few things that make me happy these days that don’t involve coming in contact with other people. I can’t go out to eat or go to concerts so I’ve been looking to things to do at home that bring a smile to my face. Sitting on the couch with a good book while some sad music plays in the background is my idea of a good time. Sitting on my porch in good weather with a cool breeze breathing down my neck while I watch old episodes of The Middle is a good time. Cleaning the stove is not. Dusting the blinds is not. Yet those are the things I think about while I’m reading or watching tv. I could be doing that. I should be doing that. I shouldn’t be doing this. I continue watching, reading, listening, but later I am wracked with guilt that I wasted so much time doing what amounts to nothing while there was a closet to be cleaned out.
I just want to be happy again. I want to feel comforted in time when so many comforts have been taken away. Weekend trips to Rhode Island to see my sister are a thing of the past for now. I grab onto the small things, the books and tv shows that I’ve already been through but provide the feeling of being in the past when everything was ok. Boys. Everything else takes too much effort, and I am all out of effort since March. I am all out of so many things; patience, true happiness, contentment, fulfillment, peace.
So why can’t I let myself have those moments, have the peace I crave by retreating to my couch with a book? Why can’t I let myself be happy? Do I not feel like I deserve it? Probably. I’m sure if I bring this up with my therapist we’ll get to a root cause, but also spending 45 minutes talking to my therapist is 45 minutes I could have been cleaning out the fireplace or changing the sheets.
I list the things that make me happy: music, books, hockey, sitting alone outside gathering my thoughts, uninterrupted. I list the things that make me feel accomplished: cleaning, cooking, baking, organizing. Accomplished is not the same as happy. Sure, it’s a good feeling. But it’s not the same as doing something that feeds your inner self, that brings you a sense of peace, that makes you smile. It’s not ok to think that one must be productive in order to be happy or accomplished. Reading an entire book in this damn pandemic is an accomplishment. Feeling guilty about that is actually counter-productive. I have to learn to let myself relax, to lower my guard and realize that doing things around the house is not always the priority. Happiness is a priority. Peace is a priority.
I want to curl up in the recliner and listen to music to soothe my soul, just sit there and take it all in, really listen with my heart instead of the nagging voices of my grandmother and father competing for space in my head. Do something, do something. I am doing something. I’m being happy. And that should be enough.