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Imagine having an illness called, Happiness. This illness
would well, do what it says, make you happy. All days, all hours, happy. Sounds
good doesn't it? being eternally happy no matter what.
I mean, we all strive towards happiness don’t we? Whether in
the pursuit of a good career, a life partner, a nice home with a family, we all
want it, continually asking ourselves, am I happy? Does my job, my spouse, my
life, make me happy? It stands to reason then that this happiness illness would
be more a gift than an illness, wouldn't it? You’d be the life and the soul of
any party or gathering and there would be the problem. You’d be happy when it isn't appropriate, the announcement of the death of a loved one, at a funeral, when
the general mood is low, when watching a sad film, when your partner is sad and
is looking for some comfort or empathy, happy. Regardless of the mood or tone
you’d be a constant ray of sunshine.
‘How are you?’ you might ask a mate.
‘Not the best actually, my marriage is breaking down and I think
I am too,’ they might reply.
‘Shame. Still it’s a great day isn't it? You've got to love
life!’
How annoying would that get?
Very. Yet that is what faces a depressive, not constant
happiness but constant sadness, on and on no matter what the weather, mood or
tone, sadness.
