Sometimes I feel as though I’m not very evolved at all.
My trauma arrested my emotional development – I know that. But even before it happened, I struggled with envy. I remember the feeling well. Did I envy more than is normal? I don’t know. Sure, I was younger then, and still learning how to be an adult. I’m still learning. But perhaps the trauma merely exacerbated something dodgy in me that was already there, creeping around. Lurking within the corridors of my character.
My envy tends to be chiefly aroused by two people. One is my sister and one is my friend. My sister is a little younger than me and is making inroads in a performance career. I am happy for her but boy. am. I. envious.
I can’t believe that, at 30 years of age, I am still grappling with this stuff. This stuff is why I need a therapist. In the absence of said mental health professional, I will instead blurt these shame-inducing feelings out to all and sundry on the internet.
The bitter, grabbing, envious part of me has ground rules. It pipes up: “You can have that but only because I don’t want it.” Or, “You can have that but only if I have it too.” Or, at worst… “No no no. I don’t want you to have that at all.”
I know all this comes from unhelpful comparisons and a perceived sense of lacking, etc etc, blah de blah, and I need to stop looking over my neighbour’s fence and concentrate on my own garden, but now is not the time for psychoanalysis and self-examination, and nor am I in the mood or ready for lofty/mature philosophising. The airing of this dirty laundry is just for catharsis. Let’s just say that if I had a dollar for every time I googled “I can’t be happy for my friend”, I’d have a fair few dollars.
I intend to write a song about this feeling. There’s a long weekend coming up; I shall use the time to attempt a little alchemy and perhaps turn something ostensibly ugly into something useful. Maybe even beautiful.