The Happy Complex: The Feeling of Forced Happiness

Have you ever felt obligated to be happy in the presence of positive people? You know,  that "deer caught in the headlights" moment where you're watching the person's happy talk while feeling completely disconnected? This happened to me the other day at a restaurant I frequent.

One of the employees is a jubilant man who takes food orders at the counter. He is filled with blissful quips and optimistic dialog. He is special and refreshing, relieving the placated moods surrounding those waiting in line. Some may wonder what the source of his glee is. Religion? Money? Family? Hobby? Or is he an unpretentious avatar, a keeper of keys to the Kingdom of Heaven?

As a young child, I was keenly aware of the sadness in the world. It began with a scraped knuckle on the playground, awakening me to the reality of pain and impermanence. The loss of my existential virginity deepened while staring at elderly people and feeling deep sorrow, knowing their days were short.

Sunday mornings were spent gazing at the stone face of Jesus, adorned with a crown of thorns, at the entrance of the Catholic church. The vivid statues inside depicted Jesus' torturous journey carrying the cross to Golgotha, amplifying the sense of a waking nightmare.

During my adolescence, I couldn't avert my gaze from the horrifying footage of war and death. I watched the 26-episode British documentary television series "The World at War" with a specific interest in footage of the Nazi concentration camps. I was spellbound in horror as I watched bulldozers pushing piles of dead bodies into huge pits.

As a teen, I became obsessed with Vietnam War footage. I just couldn't turn my head away from reality. If there was a sense of "do not look," — I would look. Even the Faces of Death series, showcasing gruesome ways of dying, held a strange fascination.

I remember the sadness I felt walking out of movie theaters and how the real world sucked in comparison. Although Disney movies were a relief from reality, the aftermath was often disorienting. Where is this Mary Poppins world, and why am I stuck in a depressing suburb of Los Angeles? Visits to Disneyland made it even worse. I wanted to escape into the Pirates of the Caribbean or the Haunted Mansion and never leave. How lucky were the children in Peter Pan whose "lovely wonderful thoughts" made them fly.

As I grew into an adult, I quelled my existential depression through motivational teachings. I created goal posters and became a devotee of infinite possibilities. But as time passed, my dream bubbles popped through a recurrence of abrupt reality checks. One of those inconvenient truths was a nature documentary on predators.

I was staying at a friend's house in North Hollywood when my Disney "programming" came to a halt. I don't remember the series, but I spent the entire day glued to the TV as the horror of brutality was revealed. Of course, one may wonder why I was clueless about one-half of nature eating the other half. But that was a result of "wishing upon a star" so my dreams would come true (thanks to that lying cricket). Bambi, the Lion King, and the biblical fiat "the lion shall lay done with the lamb" didn't help either.

Now, I'm not negating rational optimism or thinking big. I'm pointing to the harsh reality that dreams usually don't come true. Now, the gatekeepers would scold me for violating the "code of hope," but an honest assessment of American Idol would demonstrate that there's not enough room at the top. And to make matters better or worse, Simon Cowell liberates delusional singers from their grandiosity.

I'm suggesting a renewal of authenticity. I'm validating the unspoken stare. I'm saying to you, oh reader — you are not crazy. You have every reason to be sober when tempted by jubilee juice. Your resistance to courtesy assaults is grounded in experience, and the dead air that surrounds you in a crowd is sacred space.

Who wants to live in a world of people pretending to be happy? I rather watch the circus with crudely honest curmudgeons than laugh in lock-step. I may be tempted to pet the monkeys or offer a salve to the mutants, but I will resist the temptation to fake my way through the event.

The drawbacks of forcing ourselves into a good time are inauthenticity. We avoid confronting our psychological shadow, which is about as lasting as painting a smile on our grieving face. Pressuring ourselves to artificially enjoy a moment only serves to further us from ourselves. Sometimes we need to step back and have a "come to self" moment. We need to explore the negative effects of forcing ourselves to have fun and make it a curious journey into our psyches.

Now, don't get me wrong. I could be accused of being happy. I do what I love and take great pleasure in like-minded conversations. But that's because I accept reality for what it is. I'm not avoiding the truth. I'm grounded in the soil of reality, well-rooted, unlike those who have taken the pedals from other flowers and glued them around their faces.

I can't say that I am immune to the temptation of a fake smile. I still feel the fear of being shunned from ape grooming. On the other end of the stick, I have been admired for standing up in the crowd, declaring, "The emperor has no clothes." I have become a self-realized black sheep.

But over the years of speaking my truth and refusing to pretend, I have developed an enlightened cynicism that neither blisses out nor gives way to nihilism. I'm somewhere in the middle where sincerity and amusement live. I realize the limits of being human and don't pretend existence is anything other than what it is — horrifying and beautiful.

I prefer not to stroke cult members' minds because I like being awake. It makes me smile for different reasons amid happy talk. They never see it in my eyes, but after reading this article, you might.

Now, go look in the mirror and grin.

— Zzenn