Catharsis

Catharsis.

1. the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, especially through certain kinds of art, as tragedy or music.

Emotional tension. Yep, that sounds about right. Everyone has some form of emotional tension. I'm certainly not a special case. Hell, I used to be a damn sight angrier than I am these days. Metaphorically packed to the brim with emotional tension at one point. And now? Now I just don't know where I am.

Well, that's not quite right. I know where I am. I'm in a position where I'm far better off than a lot of people and nowhere near where I want to be, in every sense.

You see, I have a real problem with emotional indulgence. I resent it in others. To be frank, I ridicule it in others. I can scroll down the Facebook newsfeed in a numb daze and still internally cringe at the screams for attention jumping out of the screen at me. So and so "doesn't want to talk about it.." followed by comments of "are you ok hunni? ? xx". Who gives a fuck. Don't wash your dirty laundry in public. Yet here I am writing a blog. Still, I'm not expecting this to be read by anyone and if there is another soul sullying their eyes with this diatribe; well, turns out Mr Cathartic isn't my real name and chances are rather high that you don't know me.

So back to emotional indulgence and more specifically, my very personal issues with it. Forget about my hatred of it in others for a moment. Nothing fills me with more self-loathing than my own emotional indulgence. Because I certainly indulge. It's a rare day where I dont crawl into the dark corners of my pysche and wallow in self-indulgent dispair. And then? Well, then I feel guilty as a dog sheepishly trying to ignore the puddle of his own piss in the corner as his master walks in. I feel foolish, in fact. "How the hell are you going to moan about your lot?" I demand of myself. "You really think you've got it bad?.

You see, I'm very aware that everyone has their own shit to deal with. I know what my pressing issues are. And everytime I dwell on them, the martyr in my head points out what a dick I am.

"Fucking Crohn's Disease. Why can't I be normal?" - "Michael has Cystic Fibrosis and you're going to moan about Crohn's?"

"Why couldn't my parents have loved each other and be together?" - "Your childhood was fine and you have an incredibly loving and supportive family. Who are you to bitch about anything?"

Even writing a blog I feel like a melodramatic fool. And, as I mentioned before, I'm not even expecting anyone to read this tosh. Which brings me on to Therapy.

Yep, I've capitalised it. Fuck it, it's a dirty word to me. Both my brother and sister, independantly, have suggested that I could, perhaps, use a little therapy. Probably right. But shit, if I feel guilty just splashing around in the depths of self-commiseration in my own mind, how the hell am I meant to seriously contemplate paying someone else to listen to my petty grievances?

And how are they meant to help me? Do they consult that illusive handbook entitled "Answers to Life"? Ah...I see. It's the 'getting it off of my chest' which is meant to be the real therapy. You know, the whole 'talking about it' shindig. Well, I'm not a big talker. Don't get me wrong, I'm a charming social butterfly when I want to be. I'll fall for a girl and tell her just about everything that has happened in my life. But to talk to someone about something that really matters to me? To use someone else as a sounding board for how I should feel about things or how I should be reacting to a situation? Now that is not me.

Which leads me to here. A nice convenient place for me to rant without the self-ignominy of keeping a diary. Or, as my brother calls his, a journal.

Fucking ridiculous.