Snowflake was in town to take care of some business this weekend, and so we had breakfast on Saturday and coffee on Sunday afternoon. On Sunday afternoon, sitting in the humid New Home air, she asks "Where is Happy Toirdhealbheach Beucail? You need to find him."
Where is happy me? It was easy enough to make a comment at the time - "I'm sure he's running around somewhere south of here - but as I went through the rest of my day, the question stuck with me. Where is happy me?
Am I ever really happy? A fair enough question with probably a less than fair answer. Not a lot.
So often it feels like I am going through the motions of my life more because I have to rather than any sense of wanting to. Yes, I understand this is the way it works in many aspects, but the truth is that there is very little - if anything - I anticipate ahead of time from week to week.
Has this happened suddenly or has this been a gradual descent? I'm too much in myself to full appreciate that, so I'll probably have to go with the general observations of those around me that yes, this has been sort of a long term thing.
Is it depression? I'm not sure- if it is, it is not the typical depressions I have faced in the sense of a severe sense of hopelessness. The sense is characterized more by a sense of blandness, of things that used to bring joy no longer doing so, of a sense of a long march to the sea without any anticipation the destination will be desirable.
If happy me is gone, where do I go to find him?