Happy shiny polar bears.

As long as he's happy, I'm happy.

I believed, and still do, in the happiness of the Other - even if it necessitated a trade-off with my own.

Once upon a time, I had a book with happy pictures and shiny people. And then, it became a twisted tale, the kind that you tell only at campfires late at night, as fire imps leap from face to face, delighting in rapt faces, widened eyes and parted lips.

I wanted him to be happy. Because. And then, Because became - words, deeds and gifts, which trial and error had taught would make him smile or laugh, acknowledgements of my time and effort. His happiness became mine - my happiness was dependant on his. I fed on him. Voraciously.

Even he, who had few security issues, did his 'share' because he wanted me to be happy too. And because I kept raising the ante. It was a vicious cycle that bound us to each other. It made me blind to his deepening unhappiness; and mine. And it made it harder for him to say the words that he really wanted to say to me. Entangled. Sinking. The Titanic of our six years together. So much to lose. For both of us. For each of us.

The eventuality of an untenable situation - disentangled and unravelled. Freed of each other, I finally began to learn how to live for myself. To seek happiness, not from another person or the external world, but to draw it from within myself.

In the bigger picture, who can say if the 'trade-off' does not eventually work out for both parties? All things work out in their own way, and their own time. Time. Patience. The heavens' teardrops on a boulder. Some months back, I realised that I can only give happiness to the Other, when I find and recognise my own.

Would you rather have a book of happy pictures and shiny people? Or, a significant story of "happiness, anger, sadness, comfort, pain, laughter, tears, warmth, cold, life, death"?