My roommate tells me I’m a trauma-sexual, meaning I’m sexually attracted to bonding over trauma. I think that’s just her way of saying I’m gay. Every lesbian I’ve ever met says you’re literally the gayest bi girl I know and they’re right. I think it’s because I feel a lot. I like talking about my emotions! Alert the goddamn press.

The spectrum of human emotion spans a wide latitude and not all feelings are created equal. Fundamentally, this of course makes sense—being happy feels good, being sad feels bad. But it’s not so simple! You think Lana Del Rey scribed Summertime Sadness in popsicle juice at Long Beach? You think Beethoven composed Ode to Joy without ever knowing pain? You think Edvard Munch would reach equal acclaim for painting The Big Fat Smile in lieu of The Scream? We appreciate the good because we frequent its opposite. Emotions carry value beyond the margins of experience (aka how it feels to feel them).

This month, and yes I know I’m a few days late, I have curated for you my hit list of Best & Worst Emotions. I’ve got feelings about feelings and it’s time for the run-down. I’ve scored each item on a scale of 10—think of it as my emotional Beli App. There’s feelings you know, feelings you hate, and hopefully some feelings you’ve never even heard of!

Joy (9.7)

Joy is a top emotion for me, particularly when likened to its fraternal twin, happiness. Happiness is born with joy, but they lead separate lives. Happiness is a state of being—it seeks longevity. Everyone is out here like I found my happiness and his name is Ryan (Ryan is a Bernese Mountain Dog). Joy, on the other hand, is intentionally fleeting—a night with close friends, the release of a good joke. It washes over you with a purity and innocence detected only in the moment before it dissolves. I feel a lot of pressure to find happiness but am constantly surprised by joy.

Jealousy (3.1)

Comparison is the thief of joy. My best friend Claire says this because her mom says this because Theodore Roosevelt said this. I’m a jealous person by nature, and let me tell you that envy looks ugly on absolutely everyone. I learned the hard way that jealousy can ruin relationships. It never pays to be the bitter friend. Be supportive. No. Matter. What. When the cards turn in your favor, you’ll notice who shows up for you.

Spite can be productive if channeled properly. If you are able detach jealousy from the catalyst and alchemize envy into motivation, you have fuel from a powerful source. Just be careful; a jealous motive is best kept secret.

Sorrow (8.1)

I’m a sucker for sorrow, what can I say. I hate to glamorize anyone’s suffering—being sad is no fun at all!! But then I write a poem and I’m like waitttttt, that’s art! In the pits of despair, I am more inclined to seek dance, writing, and comedy as catharsis, and I wouldn’t trade art for anything. The paradox is how happy it makes me to be creative.

Plus, literally everyone who has seen me cry says honey, you’ve never looked better.

Anger (6.0)

I don’t believe in anger. Or at least I say this all the time. It isn’t true. I believe in anger, but I am critical. I think it’s the incorrect nomenclature for our complex molecules of emotion—a label we slap over fear, frustration, and pain. Anger is low-risk; it requires little vulnerability, little sacrifice. It’s easier to say we are angry than to admit we are hurt.

If you can extract anger from the surrounding ions—the frustration, the hurt— and wield aggression properly, you are left with the power in rage. Men are allowed to be angry. It’s often the root of their activism and power. Women, on the other hand, are taught to suppress anger in favor of softer, more “feminine” emotions. I definitely fall in this trap. I struggle with anger, not managing it but validating it. I have a hard time allowing myself to be upset with the people who hurt me. I seem to latch onto their histories and injuries, betraying my own pain for the nobility of feminine empathy. I’m glad I have a soul, but sometimes can’t I just say fuck that?

I don’t want to be an angry person. My extended family is full of angry people and it’s miserable to watch. But I do think there is a place for anger as a form of self-care. I have been attempting to construct an appropriate nest for it—to respect the feeling without allowing it to cloud my compassion. I’m nowhere near where I want to be, but I’m starting to see the pros of getting pissed off.

Paranoia (1.0)

Are you mad? Did I say something weird? Are those girls talking shit about me?

Paranoia is described as an “irrational” suspicion, but most of the time I think my suspicions are correct. Paranoia or advanced intuition? It’s not up to me to decide.

My socially anxious paranoia produces no utility whatsoever. Do you think I want to come home from a night out and recapitulate every social interaction to my reflection in the mirror? I comb through conversations like I’m searching for lice. It’s maddening.

Some people can benefit from a little more paranoia. I for one can do without.

Wait.

Did this part make you think I’m nuts?

Schadenfreude (7.9)

The German schaden, meaning "damage" or "harm," and freude, meaning "joy" create schadenfreude, or the joy you experience at the harm or misfortunate suffered by another. It’s when you learn that your high school nemesis is balding prematurely, that your shitty Hinge date was publicly dragged on a hot girl podcast, that the college professor who gave you a B- was terminated for buying Adderall from a freshman.

My rule for schadenfreude is to employ it as little as possible. Don’t be petty, don’t take pleasure in the suffering of others…unless they really fucking deserve it. Schadenfreude is best enjoyed in moderation, and you’ll know when you’re allowed. If someone has caused you pain, then if you ask me, you’re schaden-free to go off!!

Liberosis (3.0)

According to The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, liberosis is

"...the desire to care less about things - to loosen your grip on your life, to stop glancing behind you every few steps, afraid that someone will snatch it from you..." 

In high school, I used to beg my dog to switch places. It was an offer he always denied. Even the prospect of opposable thumbs and unlimited refrigerator access wasn’t enough to convince Romeo that life as an eleventh grader was sufficiently rewarding. I was so jealous of him—he had no responsibilities other can shitting in the correct place and everyone he walked by fell madly in love with him. To be fair, he looked like this:

Most sources describe liberosis as the feeling of wanting to be a kid again, to enjoy life without worries or cares. Adulthood is famously burdensome—lots of people wish they could take it all back. I understand, but I’m not a fan of liberosis. Not only because it’s futile to yearn for the past, but also because I think liberosis implies a gross misrepresentation of childhood. Have you ever met a kid who was thankful not to have to deal with taxes, car insurance, and dating apps? Probably not. Being young feels just as hard as anything else when it’s happening to you. Childhood sounds fun in theory but it poses its own challenges in practice. I don’t miss homework or middle school drama. I certainly don’t miss the Presidential Fitness Test.

Jouska (10.0)

Jouska is a conversation you have over and over…only it’s completely hypothetical and exists only in your head. It’s the obsession with what you would say if you were mouthing off your boss or asking your wife for a divorce.

Jouska gets a flat ten from me. Not only is jouska the perfect name (evoking an image of a hot-headed Russian woman commanding me to a midivil joust), it’s also a productive catharsis. I am always dicing up discussions that haven’t happened and may never happen. I’m prepared for a LOT of scenarios. Is it healthy to stir so much in speculation? Can’t be sure. Is it satisfying? Absolutely.

Lachesism (7.5)

The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows is my new favorite archive, mostly because whomever created it has no clue what the point of a definition is. Illustrating words with the most profoundly unnecessary details, it’s basically what would happen if Merriam Webster put me in charge.

According to DOS, lachesism is:

“…the desire to be struck by disaster—to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall—which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your life, and forge it into something hardened and flexible and sharp, not just a stiff prefabricated beam that barely covers the gap between one end of your life and the other.”

I’m into lachesism the way some scholars are into cults. I would never want it to happen to me, but I live for the spectacle / doomsday drama. Plus, there is something seductively twisted about being the product of calamity. Don’t you ever wonder what people would say at your funeral? How the masses would weep over your thespian departure? My biggest hope is that I’d end up in a peer’s stand-up special:

My good friend was struck by lightening last year and did not survive. Her vibes were always electric. RIP bestie <3

Sonder (4.7)

Sonder is “the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.”

You mean to say the universe doesn’t revolve around me? Um, you sound crazy.

I don’t feel particularly overwhelmed by sonder; its presence in my psyche is largely benign. I am often even tickled by the idea that an elderly man in Taiwan is folding a linen shirt before bed as I stroll the summer streets of New York City, or a little girl in Arizona is selling lemonade on the sidewalk while I catch the six train home from work. But sometimes I am confronted with sonder’s innate claustrophobia as I catch myself tripping over someone else’s life. I’ll slam face-first into a path I might have followed, a parallel reality so close its scent wafts through the air behind me.

This happened last week when I went to see the New York City Ballet with my lovely friend and comedy partner, Augusta. I haven’t seen a ballet in ages and I was worried it would summon a painful nostalgia. I don’t remember when I let go of the dream of dancing professionally, or if I ever did.

The performance was flawless...I won’t bore you with the details of a perfect pas de deux, but there was a distinct moment when I narrowed my eyes and pictured myself in the dancer’s body. To write about a ballerina seems trite, overplayed, but for a few moments I was absorbed in her habitat—the compounded stares of the audience, the firm grip of her partner, the epinephrine of performance. I pictured her rushing backstage, retouching her lipstick in the dressing room. I was starkly reminded that someone else’s world is just as whole as mine, and not only that but it is dotted with these untouchable stars, moments I cannot reach. Since then I have stayed away from sonder.

Birthday (2.5)

Birthday isn’t a feeling! Oh…but it is. I’m feeling birthday in just one week from now, my twenty-fifth to be precise. Birthday is not my favorite feeling. I don’t mind getting older, but twenty-five feels a little excessive, don’t you think? I know it’s still young, blah blah blah, but I can’t help but get the idea of birthday all tangled up in existential panic. I’m putting a lot of pressure on twenty-five to take me somewhere I want to go.

But first, come to my birthday party. I’d love to have you.

This concludes May’s essay. How are you feeling?

A) Joy - I appreciate this piece of writing

B) Jealousy - I wish I could write about something as pointless as this

C) Sonder - Wait, you’re a whole girl with a life aren’t you…that’s wild

D) Birthday - Happy birthday shelb

Ok bye for now <3

xoxo,

Shelby