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The American Idea Of Happiness Is A Huge Lie
As I stared out my window, I witnessed something disturbing.
My neighbor who I’ve known for 15 years went out to his car, popped the trunk, grabbed a beer, opened it, then started drinking before he even got back in the house.
At 2 PM.
It seems mundane. It seems somewhat harmless, right?
But that’s not the first time I saw this. Last month I saw him stand by his trashcan outside swallowing a beer and sucking smoke like a vacuum cleaner from a cigarette.
The past few years I’ve witnessed this man descend deeper and deeper into alcoholism from my window. How do I know? Well, it’s a common thing to see him during the 60 seconds I spend looking out my window every day.
His life seems pretty nice. A great house, two kids, a nice spouse, all of that stuff. It’s the quintessential American dream, isn’t it?
It looks perfect on the outside, but beneath the surface there’s pain and avoidance and drinking and numbing and stress. I look at this man, a man I respect, and wonder why in the hell would I want what he has?
Why do I want a family? Why do I want kids? Why do I even want to get married?
Why would I want all that if it’s just going to push me over the edge into…
