It’s surely better to be openly miserable then pretend to be happy. If you are already miserable then the added task of lying about your state of mind surely just compounds the wretchedness you feel. It can be said that some of the greatest minds in humanity were miserable. I start with composers and straight away think of Tchaikovsky. His greatest symphony, and possibly the greatest symphony, is a musical suicide note at best. The fourth movement is so utterly moving you can hardly fail to feel uplifted, by being taken to the gut of someone else’s desolate brain.
No-one, it seems, likes seeing a sad face. Cries of ‘cheer up, it might never happen’ annoy me because the meanings of the words are lost. What if that person has just heard their family had died? The antagonist may be fed a knuckle sandwich, if they are not careful. I have found at times, tough, that misery doesn’t have to have a cause. In my case it just burdens me when it feels like it. At present it is persistent in the evening, but that is not it’s permanent residence in time. When I used to work it would strike me down for days, sometimes weeks at a time. I would be very hard to get along with, mostly by becoming insular and mute, with a constant downcast face. It is very hard to lift yourself and now I try not to fight it, because I am resigned to being unable to beat it. So I have to curl my life around the whims of a chemical imbalance.
Yet, there is nothing wrong with being miserable if you can accept they it is a facet of life. It is the antithesis of happy and would be odd if it didn’t exist when you consider the symmetry in nature. And more so when the black dog finally disappears and gives you respite you can feel the relief and get some of your life back. Without misery you couldn’t have that reassurance.