There is a certain morbid pleasure in emotional trauma. Much in the same way that your organs tell you you're hungry, sated, tired, caffeinated, nervous, embarrassed, uncomfortable or frightened, you're also relying on your body for primal cues that were synaptically imbued long ago. If we feel sad, we often wonder if we're actually sad, and we do some complicated math to talk ourselves out of it. We can fool ourselves into believing that emotions are a choice, sure.
The physical, however, makes it a Real Thing.
How fascinating it is to have a Real Thing on my hands!
When the primal cues deliver, it's sort of neat. The doorbell rings, my hands start shaking. The darkness outside + that photo = stomach pains. The desire to run is actually making my legs tense up...that's a new one. However, since I can't leave, my brain has taken it upon itself to trip on some homespun acid, convincing me that this house is no discrete construction: it is everything, it is Time itself, it is All There Is and Ever Will Be. The walls seem thicker than before, the beds more uncomfortable. My eyes dart and my skin jumps, thanks to the unfriendly shadow people who loom outside of every door. Best to stay in the room with the broadest watchtower view. Simple equations!
The emotional side effects are less fascinating. There's crying and screaming and fits of rage, poor judgment, emboldened cursing. This is all sandwiched by bouts of religious-like optimism and a sense of gratefulness that could part the clouds and unleash rainbows and fucking unicorns and puppies. Nobody likes to see these emotional bits. Impositions at best. Complicated math will clear them right up.
But the physical is made of atoms and entropy. Neal DeGrasse Tyson can't even deny this shit.
Yes, how fascinating to have Real Thing on my hands. Do I get a prize?
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