Economics of Feeling

It's a feeling most of us unfortunate inhabitants of the 21st century have experienced: you're happily doomscrolling on your social media site of choice and having a grand (if compulsory) time. When suddenly your illusory peace is shattered by the image of your ex with someone else. 

For me, it was the morning. I was warmly embraced by the sloth that accompanies staying in bed until 10. So comfortable, in fact, that I treated myself to a self-indulgent pity party on my phone until 11. A morning cup of Tinder despair with an Instagram chaser. 

When upon my phone I came to spy, my ex making out with some other guy. 

It's not the first time, and likely not the last. But it's also strange, foreign. The feeling of familiar transposed onto something outside yourself like a novelty T-shirt sold by a meme page.

To my surprise the feeling that rose to the top of the emotional tide was something akin to watching a nature documentary. Something akin to a spectacle of rituals with connections to the struggle and toil of my daily life, but decidedly departed from any conceivable configuration of my limited world. 

I apologize for the wording. The weight of any feeling predisposes me to verbosity.

A quick (and confusing) digression: Who I am is many a thing to different people. Yet I find myself loathe to accept any adjective outside of the ones echoing loudest in my skull.

Detached. Occupied. Limited. - Acceptable.

Emotional. Jealous. Possessive. - Impossible.

Irony of the odds of the co-morbidity of such traits? Priceless. 

Once the initial wave settles, there remains the unfortunate reality clinging to the surface like discarded soda bottles washed upon the shore...

The truth is that it's easier to accept the flaws you create yourself than the ones that have been carved into you by external forces. Its the difference between weak and vulnerable. Or perhaps the difference between a tattoo and scar? I feel that sounds more poetic and less Freudian.

The parable I tend to give while trauma-dumping on unsuspecting strangers is the fabled "Disney girl." The archetype of the wounded woman left disillusioned by the distance between reality and happily-ever-after. 

But what about the Disney boy? How many Prince Charmings does it take to internalize the belief that your big throbbing happily-ever-after is the only possible fit for a gaping, lonely heart? And that only by filling their gaping, throbbing heart can you yourself come to the fairytale happy-ending.

Again, apologies for the wording.

But it does present a sticky moralistic dilemma to the pluralistic and compersion-loving: If the capital G-O-D approved format of monogamy is a constant, then any solution to your partner's happiness must necessarily include you. 

Even if you come to agree that neither of you want it. 

(For the record, I'm no longer on the VIP list for the big rager in the sky. Though I'd never have the heart to tell the monsignor any time I'm in town for the holidays.)

It's a frustrating predicament. On one hand, there is the happiness of seeing happiness in others.

But on the other, there is a greedy, selfish shadow casting a pall on the state of affairs. The ugly ego rearing it's self-important head.

So this is where our long-winded digression finally winds back to our initial supposition: Is my entire identity shattered by the sinking feeling in my chest from looking at my ex commingling with the world outside myself?

My initial conclusion after drunk texting myself from the inordinately-long bathroom line at the pity party is probably not. But moments of existential clarity rarely coincide with spikes in blood alcohol content.

But maybe, just maybe, this is a human moment. For everything I claim not to feel, this is perhaps the unspoken nothing and "I'm fine" that bubbles to the surface.

I would suppose I am just remembering feeling. Spending so much time detached from sensation often makes for a more difficult reacquaintance.

It's strangely comforting: to think that I may be experiencing the same sort of philosophical coming-of-age that the other consciousnesses, all tiled in their tiny boxes on my phone, face every day.

Maybe I'll wake up healthy, wealthy, and wiser. But odds are better that I'll wake up at 10 and take the day from one minute to the next.

It's likely just the smoke and whiskey.

Or maybe I need to sleep.

- BL