How to Be Happy

by David Burton

  In those final months of year twelve, I gave a pitch-perfect performance as Crazy Drama Dave at school. At home, I was a silent brooding shadow. I was full of raw self-hatred. I was terrified of the oblivion that was to follow graduation; I was certain I would plummet into nothingness. I was miserable. I had finally been open with some of my friends, and now it was only a matter of weeks before we were all separated.

  There was that other small thing, of course: I had to decide what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

  A couple of years earlier, after Mary and Mrs Coates left, the school debating team had fallen by the wayside. Simon became obsessed with grades and started to bow out of any extra-curricula activities, seeing them as distractions.

  Legal Studies was one of my senior subjects, and I had taken up mooting. Mooting is basically arguing fake law cases that are designed to groom up-and-coming lawyers. It’s like debating, but with more complex rules. It required weeks of preparation for a single case, including reading other law cases for examples of precedence. I loved the research aspect of it and the improvisational nature of the final delivery. The judge could interrupt your case at any time and ask any number of questions, demanding that you knew your case history in fine detail and could argue out any number of legal technicalities.

  I was Junior Counsel in year eleven and Senior Counsel in year twelve, and was awarded the best in the state in both roles. The whole exercise was run by a very posh university, and the awards garnered me some attention. One day my mooting coach pulled me aside.

  ‘You know, Dave,’ he began, ‘with awards like these you’d be neatly placed for a scholarship. You’d be a great lawyer.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. ‘Thanks. I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘You should. You’d be insane to turn down an opportunity like that. It’s the best university for law, and it’d be the start of a very lucrative career.’

  I hadn’t thought about my future in concrete detail. I had plans, but they were vague. This was despite my teachers and peers asking me constantly, ‘What are you going to do when you graduate?’

  Way back at the start of high school, I had asked Simon what he wanted to be when he grew up. It was a playful and light-hearted question, but Simon proceeded to lay out his ten-year plan for becoming a member of the defence force. At the age of thirteen, Simon already knew which subjects he would choose, and what marks he needed to get in each of his exams. Five years on, Simon’s life was on schedule. I didn’t know what the hell was going on with mine.

  Law seemed like a reasonable option. It involved a combination of human relationships, communications and problem-solving. Legal Studies was fun: most of my mates were in the class with me. And I was good at it. There was also a good chance that I’d get a scholarship and there would be no financial cost. Plus, Will from Will & Grace was a lawyer, so I knew gay people could be lawyers. It was obvious.

  Ironically, given all of my uncomfortable experiences with psychologists, I also had a minor interest in psychology. The thing that fascinated me was the way human minds work. Helping people with depression, like my mother and Tiff and Mary (and myself), seemed to be a noble undertaking, and one I thought I would be good at. My endless drive to help people might actually be put to good use.

  And then there was drama.

  I was shocked to find you could actually study it at university. You could do ‘theatre studies’. I had no idea what ‘theatre studies’ meant, but it sounded exciting. It was a path that could lead to drama teaching, and I realised, somewhat quietly, that I could probably do that and enjoy myself. Becoming someone like Mr or Mrs Coates meant writing shows and producing them every year, and spending hours of time in drama classrooms, which were my favourite places on earth.

  I researched what doing ‘theatre studies’ might actually mean and I came across the degree in acting and performance.

  A whole degree in acting? Three years of just performing? And then to be an actor, in film, or TV or the theatre, as a job?

  The time came to fill out the university application forms. With the paperwork laid out, Mum and Dad sat down with me to go through the university guide.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Theatre. Psychology. Law,’ I replied. This was no surprise to my parents. They nodded.

  And then they did something that I’ve since realised is a complete rarity.

  They smiled warmly and said, ‘Do whatever makes you happy.’

  So I took their advice. I had to put in six options. I put psychology in the last two spots, law in the middle two, and acting and theatre at the top.

  Each senior student was required to see a school counsellor to go over their preferences before they submitted them. I took my filled-out sheet into the counsellor’s office to talk to a mild-mannered middle-aged woman whom I’d never met before.

  ‘Okay, David. Let’s have a look.’

  I gave her the sheet.

  ‘Okay, now I see you’ve put down theatre for the first two options, but that’s going to be terribly difficult to find a job in, isn’t it? So I think law will be best. Your grades are excellent. Here we go.’

  She produced a red pen and, right in front of me, crossed out the theatre options on the page.

  I nodded warmly. ‘Thanks so much,’ I said. ‘You’re very right.’

  I walked out of the room and threw the paper in the bin.

  Stupid bitch.

  There was no way I was doing anything but theatre now.

  10

  How to Survive Year Twelve

  Graduating from my high school involved more ceremonies and rituals than applying for a licence to kill. In the space of about a fortnight we had a senior retreat, a valedictorian dinner, a commencement address, the leadership handover, an awards night, a graduation mass, a senior leadership mass, the sacrificing of a small goat and a dance offering to the Gods of Olympus.

  Before we were finally set free to wreak havoc on the world, we were taken away for one last school camp. This was the senior retreat: an emotional three-day trip, carefully curated by the staff as a time for reflection. It was the type of thing where the word ‘journey’ was used every two minutes.

  We split into close ‘sharing’ groups. At first these sessions fell victim to general teenage indifference. We were used to being pushed around and told to reflect and pray, and we weren’t that bothered by it. But a few things happened that changed our minds.

  The first was a couple of teachers telling us their life stories. They got up in front of us all and told of teenage struggles that seemed markedly difficult and way tougher than my own troubles. I was astonished. Poverty, family deaths, miscarriages and abuse were all talked about. I had never thought that the people around me were also human beings with their own demons to deal with. But, speaking about it now, in their middle age, they showed remarkable resilience. I couldn’t work it out—how could they stand there and smile? How could they get over it? They each ended up so normal, with a spouse and kids and a regular job.

  I remained unconvinced that my life could have the same fate. I felt I was destined to be unhappy and abnormal, in one way or another, for the rest of my life.

&nb
sp; I didn’t share this with the group. My armour was too tight.

  Other students began to open up, however, and one of them was Ray.

  Ray, darling cheese-loving Ray, who I had abandoned now for more than four years. While I had climbed the social ladder, Ray had remained on that bottom rung. His slow speech and frequent interruptions in class meant that he was the victim of much eye-rolling frustration. His lack of hygiene meant people were visibly reluctant to sit next to him. The original novelty of his inability to discuss anything other than cheese, Pokémon and Austin Powers disappeared quickly, and Ray was left in isolation.

  In his group at retreat, Ray confessed he had no idea what his life would be like after school. He admitted to having attempted suicide.

  The worst thing was that I wasn’t surprised. I felt guilty for all of the times that I had turned my back on him, starting in those early days in our very first year when Simon had been so rude. But my regret came too late. We were only weeks away from the end of school, and nothing could undo the last five years of Ray’s silent unhappiness.

  On the final night of the retreat, each student was given a gift: a collection of letters, written by parents and relatives in secret. Inside my parcel I received heartfelt notes from my extended family and my parents. They were funny and moving, and there were lines that brought me to quiet tears.

  ‘There are a lot of ideas out there of what a man should be,’ Dad wrote, ‘and most of them are bullshit. What counts is character. And, by God, you’ve got a lot of that.’

  ‘You are an excellent brother,’ Mum wrote, ‘and the boys are incredibly lucky to have you in their lives.’

  I was shocked. I had spent so many hours contemplating how my parents didn’t love me, or how they were incapable of understanding the real me. I hadn’t spent nearly enough time considering how they actually felt. That I was capable of being loved was a genuine surprise.

  The stream of exercises on those retreat days caused me to look back on the past five years. The miserable tale of hardship and trauma that I had been telling myself for years (awful boyfriend, bully victim and loser) began to morph when I changed perspective. I wasn’t nearly as alone in the world as I had thought I was. Although I had constantly insisted I never needed help and that I was ‘fine’, I had been very lucky always to have had assistance available to me.

  A small handful of teachers remained personally invested in me right through high school. Some offered words of advice about Mary and regularly asked about my life at home. Mr and Mrs Coates both went out of their way to give me the opportunities they felt I deserved. There were many other teachers who would’ve gone above and beyond to try to give me the tools I needed to gain a brighter outlook. And, ultimately, as their letters proved, Mum and Dad were willing and enthusiastic to help at any turn.

  I had spent the years of my high-school life feeling isolated, assuming that I was alone in my struggles. I had told myself, repeatedly, that I had nowhere to go and no one to reach out to. This is the biggest mistake of the anxious or depressive mind. I had assumed I was alone. I’d fallen into this trap like a true disciple of negativity.

  I realised all of this just as the structure and support of school was about to become unavailable to me.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘What have you got for us?’

  The man in front of me is built like a tank. He takes theatre very seriously. He’s the head of acting at the university where I’m auditioning. His tone is flat. The message is clear. I’m here to prove something to him.

  My contemporary monologue is Doug, from a play called Cosi by Louis Nowra. Doug is a pyromaniac who has set fire to a cat. Easy. I just play crazy. I start whizzing through the monologue with barely a breath, trying to control my nerves.

  He stops me before I’m forty seconds in.

  ‘Right,’ he says, approaching. ‘I want you to do that again.’ He’s just picked up a large stick. ‘But I need you to be more threatening.’ He’s swinging the stick around threateningly. ‘I want you to scare us.’ He’s looking at me with that stick. ‘It’s a threatening character.’ The stick is very large. ‘Okay?’ he hands me the stick.

  I nod. Smile.

  Threatening. What could be easier?

  I begin.

  This time, it’s only twenty seconds. He stops me.

  ‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘It’s about showing us you’re in control.’ He approaches again, gets close to my face. ‘Don’t back down. Put all your energy forwards.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, like I suddenly know what he is talking about. ‘Yep. No worries.’

  Right. Okay. Forwards. I’m trying to ignore the fear-induced urine that’s threatening to put its energy forwards in my pants.

  I begin. This time, I get through the whole thing, but I can feel that I’m not delivering what he wants. His sharp nod and grimace confirms it.

  ‘Good. Your Shakespeare?’

  It’s from Henry VII. I haven’t read the whole play and I only kind of vaguely know what I’m saying. But I deliver it.

  ‘Great. Thanks very much.’

  I’m done. Less than ten minutes. I already know that I’m not in the acting course. I’m not sure why. The experience of auditioning is like nothing I’ve encountered at school, where I easily picked up the lead in the school musical. That may have had a lot to do with the fact that there were no other males in my year level doing drama, but, still, I was shocked by the experience I’d just had.

  Bizarrely enough, acting requires a very real and tangible connection to one’s true self.

  Fat chance.

  I barely had time to reflect on my failure. Less than half an hour later and just a few metres down the hall, I had a far more friendly interview for the theatre studies course. The acting audition had taken place in the theatre: a large, intimidating space where the seats were raked in such a way to look down upon the performers and shrink their confidence. My interview for theatre studies was in a small studio. A beaming and relaxed woman called Donna welcomed me. We sat down opposite each other.

  ‘Fuck,’ she muttered, under her breath, flicking through some papers. ‘I’m so sorry, Dave. I’ve left your papers on my desk. I’ll be back in a tick.’

  She rushed out of the room. I was alarmed by this quick interaction for many reasons.

  1. A teacher had sworn at me. And not half-heartedly. It was a proper, meaningful ‘fuck’. I’d been at school for twelve years, the last five of them in the Catholic education system, and I had never heard a teacher swear. Except for my music teacher in year eight, who once chastised a group of boys for ‘pissing around’. The slip had caused a major scandal that lasted for the rest of the term.

  2. She had called me Dave, as if we were old friends. I had come in expecting to be judged for my academic and theatrical merit, but she seemed far too relaxed for this to be the case.

  3. My ‘papers’ included a short essay that all prospective theatre-studies students were required to write. Trouble was, I had handed mine in late. I’d had so much warning from high-school teachers that a university-level institution wouldn’t put up with tardiness or laziness of any kind that I was positive that my late submission would make me ineligible f
or the course. I had written a simple and heartfelt note of apology to accompany the essay, promising that such lateness was deeply unusual and not at all indicative of my work ethic. I knew she was about to see that note. She would return to the room and probably ask me to leave.

  4. She swore. Fuck. She said fuck.

  My alarm didn’t last long. Donna rushed back into the studio. She had a kind face and a sharp shock of brown hair. She was dressed elegantly but simply in a loose grey jumper and dark jeans. Her face was beautifully expressive, making her intensely charismatic. She asked me several questions and listened intently to my answers. We even managed to make each other laugh a few times. And when we did, I was rewarded with a free and infectious guffaw from her. She looked at the note of apology I had attached to my essay, smiled and said, ‘That’s sweet.’ Then she put the note aside and didn’t refer to it again.

  The monologue I had prepared for Donna was quite different from the pyromaniac performance. Wanting to show extra creative zeal that was more appropriate for the course, I had created a monologue from the various speeches of Prior Walter, the lead character in my favourite play at the time, Angels in America by Tony Kusher. (It’s filled to the brim with characters struggling with their sexuality.)

  Donna smiled as I performed it, and we talked about it in depth afterwards. The entire exchange would’ve only been fifteen minutes, but I left the conversation feeling good. The acting course was completely forgotten. The only thing I wanted to do was theatre studies.

  A week later, as school was wrapping up, I was pleased to receive my offer in the mail. Just like that my future was decided. Theatre studies. I accepted the offer.

  Two months later, offers for psychology and law came in the mail. I didn’t think twice. I knew I had made the right decision.