Unhappy People

I worked in the church nursery today. For the first time in several months, I got to be around little kids. Human nature as represented by four year olds has not changed any in those months.
But I do not write this about the four year olds-- they were merely a clever diversion to draw you in to this entry and make you read further. If you are feeling a bit faint at this exposition of my mental dexterity, I understand. Sip some water and read on.
There was in the midst of the room of twenty-odd screaming four-year-olds a boy whom I will call Bertie. If his name really were Bertie then I could make allowances for his behaviour. But that is not his name at all; I made it up to protect his privacy, because I know all about those privacy laws. (A second example of my sagacity! Truly, I spoil you.)
Bertie sat with his back to the teachers the entire lesson; Bertie pushed the smaller children; Bertie's response to any direct address was immediate, decisive, and unswervingly negative. Bertie was vocal; Bertie was stubborn; Bertie was going on six years old and his mother refused to move him out of the four-year-old room.
The Mother of Bertie descended upon the nursery as the sanctuary emptied and fastened a piercing, harried, convicting gaze upon me as I stood with the check-out list in all my collegiate novice glory.
"Bertie says that the lady in the black shirt said he can't come back to this room anymore," she snapped out.
(Note: I was clad in an innocent dark-gray sweater; but the only other lady in the room was arrayed in wine-red.)
"Bertie said-- black shirt--" I smiled a smile of confusion and tried to remember what I had said to one out of twenty-one children over the course of two very loud hours. M.o.B. pursed her lips and glared. I remembered Tim, the Experienced One who has worked the church nursery for six years.
Accordingly, Tim was summoned and M.o.B was summarily dealt with. There had been a mix-up with one of the children's ministry leaders (the Black-Shirted). But to Bertie's maternal parent the church was against her, but she wasn't surprised, and the children's ministry was biased, and she was persecuted, and so was her son. To finish, M.o.B spat a few choice words in Tim's direction and I ducked behind the Lego box.
As I cleared the floor of Lincoln Logs and pink feather boas I thought about Bertie's mum. I tried to picture her smiling or laughing or stepping out of doors on a beautiful day and appreciating it, and I couldn't. I have been accused of possessing an overactive imagination, but I could not see her happy.
I do realize that my interaction with this woman took up less than five minutes of my nineteen years of existence and her-- more than that-- years on earth. And yet her mien suggested something I have seen before.
Have you ever met Unhappy People? I do not mean people who are sad, or depressed, I mean people who do not take pleasure in anything but misery. I have known several such individuals, and whenever I come across them I pay attention, because they puzzle me. I say, "What a nice day," and in reply the U.P. manages to convey that "nice" is not an adjective to be applied to anything, much less that day. I comment on how busy my classes have been keeping me, and the incorrigible soul lets me know in no uncertain terms that I do not know what busy is.
Symptoms shared by Unhappy People include but are not limited to:

• inability to retain a roommate (this phenomenon applies specifically to college students and young professionals). Either the poor roommate moves out or the U.P moves from room to room, ostensibly seeking solace and finding none. Theory: actually seeking more material to wield against humanity?
• victim mentality. It is never their fault. Ever, ever. And all stories are related in such a way as to magnify their distresses.
• universal suspicion. You are lying until you tell them what they aready supposed.
  
• joy-killing mentality. They are most happy when others are not.

M.o.B. got me thinking about this type of person, and it saddened me. Wht are they so very miserable? I have known a few, and I have yet to find out.
Bad moods I can understand. I am afflicted with them, often. My life is imperfect and there are many things about myself and my world that are frankly distressing. But that is life; that same thing, to varying degrees, could be said for every son of Adam that walks the earth. What selfishness to believe, and to promote the belief, that your particular set of troubles so far outweighs the problems of all others. The Mother of Bertie struck me as the kind of person incapable of stopping to smell the roses (or fallen leaves, depending on the season) and just appreciate life, with all its troubles and flaws and injustices.
Perhaps I have completely misrepresented this woman; for as noted before, our intersection was brief. I could be very very wrong about her personality. Regardless, though, she gave me some material for mental deglutition.

Oh, the joy of seldom-used words...