I have a list of words that I hate on my computer. Some because they are awkward and harsh and never seem to fit neatly into the casing of a poem, protagonist, or because they are utterly useless. The word "purpose" makes me cringe. I hate thinking that art exists for any other reason besides existing. That we are alive for any other reason besides the fact that we are.

I think it goes along with hating to be told what to do. I loathe it. I imagine my world with boundaries surrounding me, and when someone oversteps this, and seems to ruin my autonomy, I, to say the least, flip. And purpose always seems like a command.

I remember when I told a close friend I was depressed, she told me I should just “try to be happy.” I could go into the neurons and the axons and the re-uptake inhibiters and write you an essay on why this is absolutely ludicrous, but besides the extreme ignorance of the response, I think this perpetuated ideal in society is harmful to everyone.

I, like many people, have spent much of my life trying to be happy. Striving for this manic sense of elation. What most people end up finding is frustration; pure happiness does not exist. And when you are depressed, it is especially disheartening to feel like you have somehow gotten lost of this existential journey. To feel like you are doing something wrong. That the way you feel is not only broken, but bad. That you are not normal.

Last year, I watched a video called, “Why Be Happy When You Could Be Interesting?” where philosopher Slavoj Žižek discussed why the pursuit of happiness is terribly misguided. He explains that when you are in a creative endeavor, you experience a “wonderful fever.” That artists are willing to suffer and cry with their work. That being interesting is about being deeply interested in the world, and that this is more important than happiness.

I once stayed up until five a.m. writing half of a novel that I scrapped the next morning. I have never felt more refreshed. I once didn’t eat all day because I had reached an “aha” moment and I could not bear to rip myself away from my writing. I have never felt more satisfied. And I was not happy in these moments. I was not smiling; I was slouched over my writing in my bed, with big, red marks on my legs from the heat of the computer.

I realized after watching the video that I did not have a purpose. I was not supposed to be happy, I was supposed to be alive. I want to feel. I want to get angry and hit pillows and get so excited I get light headed and get so sad that I lose even the ability to cry. I want to experience every human emotion possible. I want it all at once. I want my breath to be taken away by how interesting everything is when you let it sit there. Just sit. No reason. No purpose. Just letting the world be.

I have learned this lesson the hard way. By falling to the bottom of an abyss, but just sitting there wondering when happiness was going to save me. Searching the bottom for light, when it was above me the whole time. I thought that neurotransmitters were like buttons and that the more good things you have, the more dopamine would be excreted, the more serotonin would be pumping. But we all know it can’t be that simple, right? We know that deep down our brains are more complicated than we could ever imagine. That our surroundings and perceptions are terribly disparate. So instead of a purpose to be happy, I’ve decided to just be. To just live and feel and be.