Sometimes I wonder if I know what it feels like to be truly and deeply happy. I had a dark childhood, and I occasionally let it overshadow my adult life. On bad days I think true happiness may be too much to hope for. “At least you’re safe now. You should be thankful,” I tell myself. But then I remember that there have been times in my past when I did experience something more than that. I have to remind myself that it was real happiness even if it didn’t last for long. How do I get back there though?
The first was band camp the summer of 1997. I’ve never laughed so hard or had as much pure fun as I did that week. It was like a dream world where I was suddenly the life of the party and, dare I say, popular. The dream carried right on over to my 9th grade year in school where I somehow came to rule my own little kingdom of band nerds. At home little was going right, but at school I was brave and I had admirers and my drum major whistle struck fear in the hearts of underclassmen. It was magical, but of course I had to wake up eventually.
It wasn’t until my freshmen year of college that I got back the feeling of all being right in the world again. This time was different though. I wasn’t the life of anyone’s party or the center of a clique. In fact, I kept all my friends at arm’s length so I would have more time to read. That was the year I was first introduced to Montaigne and the year I was first introduced to Adam, who would become my husband years later. That was also the year I became finally free of my family. It was the first time I had been on my own and I was finally able to breathe and shake off the feeling of never quite being able to relax. I focused on my classes and writing and finding myself and grieving a crap childhood and being quiet and introspective. I was really at peace that year.
Then in San Francisco the summer of 2002, I was there again. This time I got a tiny bit of band-camp-Whitney back. I didn’t have my drum major whistle, but I made do with a muffin tin. Baking is the perfect way to make friends in a hostel–especially one as strange as the Easy Goin’ on Haight–and I quickly became the favorite resident. I sat on the back balcony drinking Lady Grey and writing and hoping that the fog rolling in would block my view of the backyard neighbors’ skinny-dipping-hot-tub party. I had so many adventures that summer. One night two backpackers from the east coast recruited me to help them gain access to the roof (I bribed the front desk clerk with muffins, of course) so we could watch fireworks on the 4th of July from all over the Bay. Another night I was sent out for falafel sandwiches for the whole crew and forgot my key and ended up trading my midnight snacks for sidecars at the bar across the street. Barter was alive and well in the Haight. That was a fine summer.
The last great happiness of the first third of my life was Thanksgiving of 2006. I was in San Francisco again. This time visiting Adam. He asked me to marry him, and all I could think was how much I didn’t deserve it. I was blissfully happy that night and San Francisco became the perfect backdrop for another one my favorite memories.
Back to my question though: how do I get back there? Can I find that kind of happiness in my day-to-day life now?
Answer: TBD.
Montaigne and Sidecars 