I Don't Have a Happy Place (28 page)

We moved to Vermont shortly after my nondiagnosis. Here, nestled into a small, lovely community, complete with fresh air and biblical morning skies, I notice that, on occasion, while still my regular old self, for some very brief pockets of time, I am feeling okay. Mildly so. Buzz has even mentioned that I seem happy. I tilt my head in confusion.

“Well, as happy as you get,” he says. “Happy for
you
.”

And then, like at the end of “a very special episode,” I figure something out. (Can't Kim figure something out?) Sure, most days, my brain is a cluttered studio apartment I'd like to move out of. But occasionally,
occasionally
, I am now able to take a break from despondency or dying to allow something to sneak in that presents itself as a good feeling. It might occur when I am taking my despondency out for a three-hour walk. It could surface when my six-year-old son requests that I stop making dinner so we can snuggle or when my nine-year-old daughter asks to borrow a scarf so she can look like me or when Buzz laughs at something dumb I've said. It's fleeting. I've learned that about myself. But isn't all happiness fleeting? Even regular people's? Mine is just a little bit more fleeting, like a quick little tornado that sweeps into town, swirling out as fast as it came in. And, Dr. X, if you are reading this, I wouldn't call a tornado
mild
.

The characters implicated in my world should win a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni. I am exhausting and draining and something to be managed, like diabetes. Mind you, I am also a decent baker. Can't Kim be happy? Meh. Not really. My dear friend Shirley believes that your glass is as full as you let yourself pour. She's adorable that way. When it comes down to it, I really and truly do not have a happy place. But, on an off day, I might have a happy
moment
. It will leave me the second it gets here, but it gets here. Sometimes. And sometimes I can even see it. But don't think I've learned some big lesson or anything, and understand that for the most part, even if happiness does pester its way in, I feel uncomfortable letting it.

We live in a new, everyone's-a-winner era. They don't keep score at my son's T-ball game. When my daughter tries out for shows at our local youth theater, they all get the part. Everyone is celebrated all the time, even if they don't do anything. And the world's life wish for us is to be happy. Do we all
have
to be happy? What if one gets crampy walking in the meadow of bubbles and unicorns? What about the muddy field of unhappiness and constant discomfort? How come there aren't ribbons or trophies for sadness or searing despondency? Don't even get me started on if your despondency is lukewarm—or mild—and not even recognized by the pharmaceutical companies or the advertising world or the general public. We are not even considered an official group. Looks like everyone's a winner these days, except the dysthymics. We don't even rate. Which, I believe, makes us—makes me—a complete failure at depression. But at least I'm a failure. I couldn't be happier.

Acknowledgments

• • • • • •

I often say the people in my life should win a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni. Or, at the very least, a reward or token for dealing with me. Baked goods are nice. . . .

For Jen Bergstrom, a plate of macaroons—sophisticated and styley like you, cookies-about-town. Please enjoy these treats in France, without me, because I don't like to travel. I hope they are life-changing, because that's what your initial call about my weird blog was for me.

For Tricia Boczkowski: a pineapple upside-down cake just like Rhoda Morgenstern would bring over to Mary's apartment when things weren't going so well at the window dressing gig. We'll polish off the cake while making fun of Phyllis, and you'll sharpen my words and sentences as beautifully as you do. I bet we share head scarves.

For Kate Dresser: lemon squares, neatly cut on a white plate, with just a touch of powdered sugar. I'd tell you when they'd be arriving, and you'd be one minute early to receive them. I'll email to make sure they got there; you'll respond immediately. You'll notice every single detail about said squares, and have the wherewithal and patience and sincerity and just enough OCD (the good kind) to discuss every last crumb. I will want to hug you.

For Meagan Brown and the rest of the folks at Gallery: I'm not sending one of those oversized tins of tri-flavored popcorn you get assaulted with at holiday time, but rather a giant assortment of cookies because, really, what says thank you for so much hard work better than cookies? I'll even throw in some sandwich varieties. That's how much I appreciate all you do.

Elana Stokes and Tanya Ferrell: For you, Wunderkinds, I will break out the candy thermometer (which I don't actually own yet, but will purchase when you force me out of my house). To you super-cool ladies, I will hand-deliver (see? I told you I'd leave the house) a box of freshly made caramels. Goat's milk caramels. Ones you can keep in gorgeous glass jars in your office or loose in your purses—little bursts of smooth, buttery energy you'll need in order to deal with me. Consider the scattered plastic wrappers around your lives reminders of how grateful I am for you.

For Hannah Brown Gordon: I once promised you a loaf cake—lemon, I believe—which I'm happy to send along. They're simple to make and slice, and they freeze well. But after thinking about it, I should probably send you a croquembouche: it's unusual and complicated and it looks kinda high maintenance and no one's really heard of it—it's the me of desserts. I'd put in the hours building it, making sure it never toppled over, and pluck it from obscurity, just for you—because that's what you've done so elegantly for me. And then some. But after rethinking my thinking, I realize I don't want to send you a dessert that signifies me. We've had enough of me—I need something just for you. I'll go back to my original loaf cake but make it in twenty-seven different varieties, with all kinds of icings and frostings and glazings, because I am awed at how many different hats you wear. And let me just say, you wear a hell of a hat. I'll also package up some peanut butter cookies, ones I make for special friends who stick their necks out and take chances on me. Thank you, Hannah. You deserve all these desserts. And the lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni. Or maybe just my promise to lay low for a spell so you can eat all this stuff in peace.

To my shiny new Vermont community: You know who you are, mostly because I refer to you by your last name, probably shouting it in a field or across a parking lot. You are so nice to me and truly good friends. For you fantastic, welcoming, and supportive people, I will learn to bake pie. And I will personally hand-deliver each one to your respective homes so you don't have to attend another potluck.

To authors I don't actually know but who inspire me time and again—Tom Perrotta, Maria Semple, Judy Blume, David Sedaris, Jonathan Tropper, Meg Wolitzer, A.M. Homes (and so many more): I will just imagine sending you a crumb cake because I don't know where you live. Plus, if I did show up there, well, that's creepy.

To my parents and brother, I send those dumb oat bran muffins because it's a family joke that will never die and maybe it will make you laugh, since I'm not sure much else in the book will. How about I throw in some Nana Ella brownies for good measure—for your love and support and, of course, all that material.

For the mighty Louise Rozett, who is such a supportive friend and generous reader, I will create some Death By Chocolate business (even if it is on my list of things I don't care for).

For my fake-Cousin Lou, who is also a darn good reader, I will attempt to re-create the Lorna Doone because they're weird and so is he. (He's also really funny and talented and looks hilarious in a skeet-shooting vest.)

For Barry Waxman, or Bups, I will make some chocolate pudding with skin. But I will go beyond my baking duties and invent some sort of spray that instantly makes licorice and gummy bears stale. Yup, I'd do that for him. He's done so much for me.

For Elsa Waxman, I would come to your house so we could bake together. Of course neither of us would be showered. You'd take out that old recipe tin and find the card with your grandmother's mandel breit recipe and you'd teach me once and for all how to make it properly—just like you've taught me almost everything else in my life. We'd eat them at the counter, talking and laughing and each fighting over who did the worse job. And I'd feel like I was home.

I know, I know, Rebecca Waxman, you're a savory. Your baked goods will be to the tune of some sort of weird cheese-and-chive scone inside a croissant thing with grits, but I'll also be sure to whip up a batch oatmeal raisins (soft-baked) and stick a handful of Twix and a box of Mike and Ike's and some potato product in my capacious bag—we're going to need a lot of sustenance to discuss all that soup. But no matter what I'd bring, you'd find something lovely to say about it, because that's just how you are. The Shirley to my Laverne. Punch in the arm, Dude. I love you, Man. I swear I'd be dead without you.

Yes, Adeline Rose Waxman Bateman, I know you, too, prefer French fries to sweets, but still I'm sending over some banana pudding for you. But only if you don't read this. If you read the book, even though I've told you not to, I'm returning my Godmother crown. And you'll be returning the pudding. Look! Here you are, finally, in the book. Just because I love you.

For Rich, I will bake a banana cake with chocolate frosting AND a coconut cake with cream cheese frosting and snowy coconut flakes. Not because I can't make a decision (which I can't) but because you deserve both (although I will give them to you secretly because if our daughter sees you eating two cakes at once, there's gonna be trouble). I bake you two because that is so above and beyond and you are so above and beyond. If not for you, none of us would ever stop to take in the view, laugh as hard, or probably ever leave the house. Thank you, Buzz, for being the marrying kind. I absolutely adore you. And yes, the dishwasher is clean.

For Ella I will try my hand at an unfussy vanilla cheesecake, not only because it's your favorite but also because it seems like a mature dessert and you're the most mature member of our household. For Oscar I will bake up the most delicious chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and stick some chewy candies on top because that's kind of gross and you like that stuff. I will also make red velvet cupcakes and cookie pie and ice cream and brownies and smush them all together because I love you both so much I don't know what else to do sometimes but squish stuff together and make a big mess (one I will absolutely make you help me clean up). You are truly the joys of my life. Every moment I get with each of you makes my heart explode (no, Ella, not literally, I'm fine). I love you clowns more than anything. Thank you for making me a mom.

Obviously, I can't bake something for myself, because it's just weird to thank yourself, which, if I'm being honest, kind of stinks because I just found a recipe for Depression Cake, which sounds pretty good.

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Copyright © 2015 by Kim Korson

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First Gallery Books trade paperback edition April 2015

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Interior design by Jaime Putorti

Cover design by John Vairo Jr.

Cover photograph of key and keychain © iStock

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Korson, Kim.

I don't have a happy place : cheerful stories of despondency and gloom / Kim Korson.

pages cm

1. Korson, Kim. I. Title.

CT275.K8345A3 2014

920—dc23

2014027606

ISBN 978-1-4767-4026-3

ISBN 978-1-4767-4031-7 (ebook)