I’m starting a new book.
I’ve been really looking forward to this particular book.
But the divine providence, aka Amazon international shipping, didn’t want it to reach my hands, leaving me with the sadness of the digital version. Jeff, I will never forgive you.
The arrival of the long-awaited book ‘La felicidad’ by psychoanalyst Gabriel Rolón was interrupted in a long journey from Argentina to Europe. But I will try again.
For now, his wise words accompany me in this new literary adventure with reflections as wonderful as this one:
“Generally, the awareness of being happy escapes us. The present is so dynamic, so instant that it’s hard to understand what we are feeling. Perhaps that’s why it’s more common to seek happiness in the past or project it into the future.”
Today, I want to talk to you about that idealised happiness that we project onto the past, specifically our childhood or when we were younger.
This happens quite often.
I still remember my grandfather, who, throughout the time I knew him, especially in the last ten years of his life, believed that any past time was better. In his mind, of course. He used to say:
Things were better before.
People were happier before.
There wasn’t so much violence in the world before.
We didn’t need so many things before.
Before, before, befolksjglsjglekge.
I understand him. Perks of being a psychologist. But understanding doesn’t mean I justify it. It’s somehow a sad happiness that has stayed elsewhere, not here, in the present time.
In the book, Rolón explains the story of Daniela, a patient of his who idealised her childhood, which she talked about all the time, praising every moment, every character, every anecdote. Just like my grandfather talking about his youth.
One day, Rolón asked Daniela to bring a childhood photo to the session, the one she cherished the most. And she, very happy, brought it the following day.
They looked at it. But as she described all those people in the photo, she discovered things that showed that perhaps her childhood wasn’t as happy as she remembered. And that’s not necessarily something bad.
Well. As she described the photograph to Rolón, traces of truth slipped out:
In the picture, she appeared with a sulky face, angry, which led her to explain what her mother was like.
A capricious, somewhat possessive mother who made her do whatever she wanted, a mother who wouldn’t let her peacefully enjoy playing with a friend.
Also, upon seeing her father, the grief of his loss emerged, as he had recently passed away.
In the photograph, she was also seen surrounded by the embrace of her sisters. One of them, whom she hadn’t spoken to in years.
It’s easy to look back at childhood or youth and think (wish strongly), that those years were the happiest.
Especially because this often happens when it contrasts with the present moment.
Like my grandfather, Daniela also had great difficulties and sadness in the present moment. This suffering provokes a defense mechanism in our brain, and, unintentionally, we look back, idealizing better moments.
Because, of course, her current life had many deficiencies.
She had a sister she hadn’t spoken to in years and whom she missed greatly.
She was grieving the recent loss of her father.
She felt the pain of her failed marriage, after many betrayals.
She had the dream of motherhood, which she was never able to achieve.
Life in the present was an accumulation of suffering, disappointments, and shortcomings. Things we would have liked to go a certain way but didn’t or never came to be.
Rolón continues with an example that aptly represents childhood and youth, helping us understand everything from a better perspective.
Childhood, says Rolón, is like having a blank notebook, ready to start.
“Then we don’t take much care of it, we are careless, we write with big letters, on only one side of the page, we leave spaces, and when we don’t like something, we tear it out and throw it away.
But as the years go by, we start to write with smaller, tighter letters, on the margins, trying to extend the notebook – life – a bit more.
When we are children, every moment is a possibility. We can take many different paths. Become musicians, businesspeople, scientists, or athletes.
But time makes those possibilities fewer and fewer. So, it’s likely that we embellish the memory of the child we once were.”
That’s what happened with Daniela. And it also happened with my grandfather, who had stopped living, having his own projects, starting new adventures, years ago. Now, he only watched the days pass.
The time of childhood, therefore, is idealised because there lies all the potential. What is yet to come, what could be.
And then, life goes on.
This idealisation is, in reality, a nostalgia for that potential that life once was, for that moment when everything was yet to be done. That moment when we say a young person “has their whole life ahead of them.”
But having your whole life ahead of you also demands the responsibility of what we do with that life.
In life, if you live it, you will have many experiences. Good, bad, normal. And many of them will be out of your control. They are things that, let’s say, you have had to live through.
But there are others, many others, where you have room for maneuver, where you can look at your present and future with the hope of continuing to bet on life. Of continuing to build dreams, even if they aren’t the dreams you once dreamed as a child.
Because… you’re still alive, right? Well, if not, you wouldn’t be reading this.
You can cry for what didn’t work out, like Daniela’s marriage. Or for what didn’t happen, like her motherhood.
But you can still desire. You can abandon that idealisation of past times and, looking at the present, say: and now, what do I want to do with my life?
Even if those dreams didn’t come true, others can.
Or do you want to stop your life and let yourself be overwhelmed by an imaginary impotence, like my grandfather?
Food for thought.
If you feel that you, too, look back too often because maybe you don’t like what you’re living in the present moment… Well, maybe it’s time to change it. If you’re still alive, there’s still time.
Love,
Noemi
P.S.: If Gabriel Rolón’s book has caught your attention, you can get it here. Maybe you’re luckier, and Jeff can send it to your home. It’s only in Spanish, for now.
