The Recovering Ecstatic
Sunlight streamed through the blinds, forcing the deepening shadows around effulgent bars of slowly falling dust. The second hand clicked the circumference of the expression on a pale yellow clock. It was the only accompanying sound. Lamps, attentive with their carefully balanced hats, stood in corners, knelt on tables, or watched from the ceiling. The warm symmetry they could have beamed into the room disused and neglected.
Her feet were pulled onto the chair beneath her, and pleated cloth draped around her shins. A high collar framed the skin of an elegant neck that shuddered with her shallow breath. The windows muted a motor’s whir and shift as her husband’s car entered the driveway. A tear tiptoed from the corner of her eye, and she hastily wiped it away, smudging her mascara.
The key grated smoothly into the lock, spinning a quarter turn before the knob wrenched around and the door swung open.
“I’m home, Martha.” He closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment as he let his eyes adjust. A smooth black sport coat hung over a white silk sleeve, and it whispered movement as he bent to put down his briefcase.
“Martha?” A step ushered him into the living room.
“Oh, John!” She rushed to her husband, throwing her arms around him. “I have something horrible to tell you. It’s awful. I just can’t bear it any longer!”
His arms wrapped around her. Strong. Comforting. Confused. “What is it?”
“I –” She trembled, “Oh god, it’s so terrible, I don’t want to tell you.”
“No matter what it is,” he ran a hand across her hair, “I’m here for you.”
“I’m an ecstatic.”
The slow, comforting motion of his hand faltered for a fraction of a moment.
“I’m an ecstatic, John.” She repeated, burying her face into his chest and sobbing brokenly.
“It’s okay,” he blinked rapidly, “It’s not your fault.”
“But I should have stopped! Oh, I’m so ashamed.”
“No.” His voice was firm. He pulled away and looked her in the eye, “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are my darling wife, and I love you. This is a terrible sickness, but we’ll get you better.”
They kissed, and then held each other.
“I’m so sorry, John.”
“It’s okay. You’re sick. You’re a sick, sick woman. We’ll get you help. We’ll make you better.”
*
“You cannot be serious!”
“The CPMC issued a statement –”
“It’s a crime! It is against the –”
“The CPMC issued a statement! that happiness can be used medicinally to great effect.”
“The South American drug trade has cost hundreds, maybe thousands, of people their lives,” her voice rose to be heard over the applause of the studio audience, “Buying illegal substances, like happiness, contributes to that legacy of violence. It is a crime for a reason.”
More applause.
“But physically, there is little evidence that happiness causes harm.”
Audience disapproval, “The FDA has correlated the use of happiness with an increased likelihood of asthma, myopia, and heart disease.”
“Not to mention how easily addicting the substance is!”
Loud agreement.
“Even if it was legal. Even if was perfectly healthy. Happiness has been clinically proven to be four times more addictive than marijuana, three times more addictive than alcohol, and twice as addictive as heroine. An ecstatic suffers extreme compulsions that negatively impact every aspect of their lives, and their suffering should be measured on the same scale with which we view every other dangerous substance.”
“Stay with us through the break for more discussion of the dangers of happiness. This is Sherri.
Liz.
Jill.
and Elaine and you’re watching Modern Woman.”
*
“My name’s Steve, and I’m an ecstatic.”
“Hello, Steve,” they replied. Their faces, a montage of city life, watched him with a mild supportive interest.
“This is my third year off happiness. I still struggle. Since I was laid off last year it’s been hard. I’d find myself looking up amusement parks on the internet. Buying cakes, candy bars, coffee. I returned them. I thought that maybe by walking mere inches from my addiction would make me feel better.”
“It didn’t. It only reminded me of what my life was like before. Binge eating, spending my time at work looking up jokes and magic tricks, ruining my marriage by refusing to talk about anything remotely serious. Losing sleep to eight hour Bejeweled sessions. I’d go on romantic comedy marathons, action flick marathons, even the occasionally really-stupid-movie marathon.”
Some laughter.
Steve smiled, “Anything that would keep me happy. Instead of giving my wife my attention and love, I’d want to go out or have sex. If she suggested anything else, I’d just avoid her.”
“I was a monster. I was controlled by my need for happiness. I had to feel that flush of positive emotion. I would sacrifice anything or anyone that stood between me and my craving. But not anymore.”
“I’m free of it. I’m okay with being sad. Or even just mediocre. There’s a satisfaction to be found in accepting reality. The urge still hits me to just feel good and pretend that the uglier parts of my life or the world don’t exist. For people like us, it won’t ever completely go away. I can accept that now. But it doesn’t mean I have to give in. It doesn’t mean that I have to let happiness destroy my family again.”
“Thank you for letting me share.”
Soft applause.
*
“Sir, put it down. Put it down now.”
Sweat beaded on the teen’s forehead, “Just a little hungry, officer.”
“I’ve seen your type before, kid. Put it down.”
“I’m having a rough day, okay?!” His voice broke. His hands fumbled with the wrapper.
The officer kept a hand on his gun as he talked into his receiver, “I have a 5150. Code 3.” He pointed, “I said put it down, kid!”
The teen shoved the candy into his mouth, threw the wrapper at the police officer, and darted away with a frightened look over his shoulder.
“Dammit!”
He barreled down the aisle, tripping over the sunglasses rack that the junkie had knocked over, “Stop him!”
The cashier cringed away from the wild-eyed teen, but just as he crashed against the door that said “PULL” a trucker pushed his way in. “That you, Donnie?” The big man scratched his jaw, “You don’t look so good.”
Donnie had barely got into his feet when the officer tackled him.
“Paul! Help me, Paul!”
The big trucker shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“Stop fighting me, kid! Do not resist!”
They crashed into a shelving unit, knocking it – and chips, batteries, flashlights, gloves, icescrapers – on the ground.
“Paul! Paul!”
Paul took a step forward, then a step back again.
Donnie thrashed wildly as the officer pulled a can of pepper spray from his belt. The teen thrust his head beneath a particularly large pile of chip bags, but polymer resin packages offered scant protection.
The officer knelt on Donnie’s back as he handcuffed the teen. He muttered irritably under his breath, and marched his teary-eyed and sputtering prisoner out the door just as several squad cars screamed up the street and into the lot.
Paul bought a candy bar.
*
“Honey, I’m making manicotti. You like manicotti.”
“Later. I’m wasting noobs.” A grim smile spread across Jessica’s face as she sniped an enemy with her ballistic knife. “Heh.”
Her husband stood behind her, holding the glass dish with oven-mitted hands. He sighed and went back into the kitchen.
The sounds of gunfire, explosions, and distorted guitars, with a vaguely near-Eastern vocal accompaniment and rave-style drumming, filled the silence he left behind. Jessica didn’t seem to mind.
“Honey.”
“I told you, not now.”
The television blipped a farewell as her husband pulled the plug. Jessica started hyperventilating. “What did you do?!
She looked over and jumped as she realized that ten people were in her living room. Some related, some just friends. She looked at her husband, “What are these people doing here, Michael? I was one kill away from attack dogs, okay? One kill!” She put down the controller, and put a hand to her chest, “I can’t believe this.”
“This is worse than the game, Jessica.” Michael looked heartbroken, “This is happiness.”
“You like it as much as I do,” she snarled, “We were happy together!”
“No,” he shook his head, “Maybe once we were. But I haven’t been happy in years, Jessica. And I’m not going back to that life. It’s wrong. If you could see through the stupor of this drug, you’d see that. We’re not happy together, honey. You’re happy all by yourself.”
Her hands were already shaking, “I’ll call the police. I have rights.”
“I’ve already called them.” He sighed, “The paramedics are on their way.”
She screamed and lunged at him, clawing at his face, “I won’t let you! I won’t be anything but happy!” Her relatives and friends clung to her, holding her down as Michael watched her and wept.
*
Michael leaned over a dog-eared pamphlet in the small room. He tried hard to focus.
Unlike other drugs, happiness can have several sources. Only resort to an intervention if a loved one exhibits many or all of these symptoms:
1. Recurrent failure (pattern) to resist impulses to engage in acts resulting in happiness.
2. Frequently engaging in those behaviors to a greater extent or over a longer period of time than intended.
3. Persistent desire or unsuccessful efforts to stop, reduce, or control those behaviors.
4. Inordinate amount of time spent in obtaining happiness, being happy, or recovering from a happy experience.
5. Preoccupation with the behavior or preparatory activities.
6. Frequently engaging in happiness-inducing behavior when expected to fulfill occupational, academic, domestic, or social obligations.
7. Continuation of the behavior despite knowledge of having a persistent or recurrent social, academic, financial, psychological, or physical problem that is caused or exacerbated by the behavior.
8. Giving up or limiting social, occupational, or recreational activities because of the behavior.
9. Resorting to distress, anxiety, restlessness, or violence if unable to engage in the behavior.
“You did the right thing, Michael.” Dr. Evans brushed her hair over an ear as she entered. “She exhibits all the hallmarks of ecstatic behavior.”
“Will she be okay?”
“An addiction to happiness is a debilitating mental illness. The physical purge will likely be over in a couple months, depending on how much is in her system. Psychologically –” She made a note on her clipboard, “Much longer.”
“Can I see her?”
“Not just yet, I’m afraid. We had to sedate her quite heavily. Right now she’s watching Pan’s Labyrinth.”
“Pan’s Labyrinth?”
“It’s like a happiness enema. It’s FDA approved, don’t worry.”
“Oh.”
“Be sure and check yourself for symptoms in the coming weeks. Performing an intervention is a traumatic experience for married couples. You’ll be especially vulnerable in the coming weeks.”
“I understand.”
“Have a good day. And don’t worry about Jessica. We’ll do everything we can to make sure she never wants to be happy again.”
*
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