Beatrice had a problem. Not a problem like a leaky tap or a rogue cat, but a problem of the soul. She was addicted to happiness.
It started innocently enough. A self-help book, a motivational speaker, a promise of a life overflowing with joy. Beatrice, a woman who had always felt a little off-key, embraced the mantra with fervour. She joined every happiness workshop, devoured every positive affirmation, and even bought a happiness-themed yoga mat (though she wasn’t sure what ‘namaste’ meant).
Her apartment became a shrine to positivity. Inspirational quotes adorned the walls, a rainbow-coloured lava lamp pulsed with optimism, and a fluffy, yellow duck wearing a tiny beret sat proudly on her coffee table, a reminder to ‘quack’ at life with joy.
Beatrice’s happiness obsession seeped into every aspect of her life. She became a master of forced smiles, a pro at deflecting negativity, a champion of ‘thinking happy thoughts.’ Her social life thrived, filled with people who shared her relentless pursuit of joy. They’d gather for ‘gratitude circles,’ share their ‘positive affirmations,’ and compete for the most radiant smile.
And yet, beneath the surface of all this manufactured bliss, Beatrice felt a growing emptiness. The constant pressure to be happy, to never let a frown touch her face, became a crushing weight. The joy she felt was fleeting, a sugar rush that quickly dissipated, leaving her craving more, yearning for something deeper.
She found herself surrounded by people who seemed just as hollow as she felt. Their forced smiles were like masks, hiding the sadness that lurked beneath. The constant need to be happy had become a prison, a self-imposed cage of positivity.
One day, Beatrice stumbled upon an old book in a dusty bookstore. It was a collection of poems, filled with the raw, unfiltered emotions of life: sadness, grief, anger, even despair. As she read, a strange feeling washed over her. It wasn’t happiness, but a sense of recognition, a connection to something real, something that resonated with the quiet ache in her heart.
For the first time in years, Beatrice allowed herself to feel. She cried, she laughed, she felt the full spectrum of human emotion, even the ones she had been taught to avoid. And in that vulnerability, in that honesty, she found a strange kind of peace.
She started to shed her happiness facade, realising that true joy wasn’t a constant state of euphoria, but a tapestry woven from the threads of life’s full spectrum of emotions. She discovered that sadness, like rain, could nurture and cleanse, and that anger, like fire, could fuel passion and change.
Beatrice learned that true happiness wasn’t about chasing a fleeting feeling, but about embracing the complexities of life, the highs and lows, the laughter and the tears. And in that realisation, she found a happiness that was deeper, more authentic, and far more enduring than the manufactured joy she had so desperately sought.
She still had her rainbow lava lamp, but now it glowed in the company of a small, ceramic cat statue, its expression a quiet, contemplative frown. Beatrice had finally learned that happiness, like life itself, was not a straight line, but a winding, sometimes bumpy path, and that the most beautiful journeys often led through the shadows.
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