There was a scene from City of Angels with Nicolas Cage, where lead angel (Cage) is standing on the very corner of a building, his face pointed up into the sunset – marbled sky, his eyes closed, his face flung to the sky. There is little about that film that I liked, but I remember that scene. It was repeated throughout the film, angels in long dark trench coats (ok, I liked that aspect too) with their faces to the sky, drinking in something that the mere non – trench coated mortal could not see.

Sometimes I imagine myself on the corner of one of the tall buildings in London, my feet perpendicular to a pointed corner, my arms spread wide and my face to the sky. It’s unlikely that it would ever happen, not only because most London buildings are unlikely to let the average Joe make their way to the rooftop, but also because I have a unique terror of heights. I say unique because I’m not actually afraid of heights, I’m afraid of how I am going to react to heights. Get me in a hotel room with a tall balcony and I have this irrational fear that I won’t be able to stop myself from going over the side, not because I have a death wish, but because I have some fundamental lack in the brain/leg connection. Moreover now that I have two little people in my life I spend my time feeling moderately terrorized by anything and everything that could hurt them, including balconies, illness, fires, and pointy sticks.

But reality aside, I like to picture that tall London building. It would be raining because it’s almost always raining in London (I’m here now and yes, it is raining today). The rain would be gentle yet remonstrative.

It’s crystal clear to me. My face is flung back to the sky and my hair is scraped into a badly managed bun. My eyes are closed and my arms are spread. My feet are firmly planted and not EDS – shaky while I stand there, the city in motion beneath me.

When I think of this image, it’s always with one clear emotional quantity, for while the image itself is moderately concerning (certainly from a mental health perspective), the truth is that I would be there asking the greater world one single question for which there is no wrong or right answer, merely your answer.

What is it that makes me happy?

What is it that makes me happy…

Such a small question but one that I ask regularly. It changes, the end of this question. It mutates and grows in the same way that my face gets more lined and the single grey hair has morphed into a dozen of them. As I grow up, my happy grows up. And it comes in Big Happy and Little Happy.

I’m happy when I get a bag of Skittles and it’s mostly the red and purple ones.
I’m happy when I see peonies.
I’m happy someone tells me I look thin.
I’m happy when my bread dough rises into the perfect loaf.
I’m happy when I catch the train on time and the seat next to me remains empty.
I’m happy when I get an unexpected parcel in the post.
I’m happy when people I love are happy.
I’m happy with my family in ways that I won’t bore you with here, but let’s go with many onion layers of happy about them.

But these are momentary fleeting happies. What is it that makes me really happy, somewhere deep inside of my happy? From the minimum of what do I want to be when I grow up (a writer. Or a librarian. Or Wonder Woman, if that post is still open.) to what is it that makes me physically want to get out of bed in the morning?

I was talking to a friend at lunch today. He’s in a good place professionally (management) and personally (a gorgeous young girlfriend). He said years ago his goal was to be a consultant and have a house with an ocean view. He has both of those things now, and now he has the unique problem of “Where do I go from here?” I think sometimes I struggle with that. It’s not like my every dream has been achieved (I am not a writer, and just having Wonder Woman Underoos does not make me the golden lasso’ed one). But I have more than my bumper crop of things that by ordinary rights I ought not to have – a family. A home. An idiot dog. A career that I fell into that wound up with a job that I am grateful for, even on the days when it gets me down. I have a great life, even if it is definitely pockmarked by things that can be described as Far From Perfect (and I’m not comparing my life to anyone else’s, because we all have our problems).

Where do I go from here?

I can ask myself that standing on my London rooftop corner in my head. It’s a bit more practical to ponder that while looking in the bathroom mirror at home (to say nothing of it being less of an insurance risk) or to debate this while stuck in traffic on my way into work. I don’t know what is this end happy, this place where I want to be. Personally, professionally, emotionally, intellectually, socially – my London face to the sky image tells me that maybe things are lacking. Or not. Maybe it’s like going from your twenties to your thirties. You go from your exuberant to your content. One step at a time, then. One step at a time.

A few small changes – I’m about to contribute professionally to a soon-to-be-unveiled website by an editor that I adore (details to follow). I’ve joined a 10 week photography course to improve my photography. Next week I start specialized EDS – tailored pilates and hydrotherapy. And there’s the little matter of finally being able to break out my beloved high heels shortly.

I may not always know what makes me happy, but I am always happy to try to find out.

-S.

PS – 8 years ago on 27 January, on a dark and snowy Swedish winter’s night, I tried to kill myself. Failing at that was one of the best failures I’ve ever had. I don’t think about that night very often at all, but when I do think of it, I am aware that desperate actions that evening are what prompted me to go into treatment and heal. My psyche is happy. Failing never felt so gratefully received.