I’ve been giving much thought to the subject of self indulgence lately. Some of this springs from my merely pedestrian need to make better choices in diet and exercise. But that’s not the sort of self indulgence that’s been on my mind the most.
You see, I have a bad habit.
This particular monkey I’d managed to peel off his perch and stuff into a cage for a good two or three years. Prior to that, my habit got so bad at times I stood amazed at the volume of flung feces spattered all over the glass. Thus, my long period of keeping the monkey in his cage and off my back.
Alcohol? Heroin perhaps? ABBA?
Nope. Worse.
I like to engage in political and religious discussions on Facebook. In the beginning, political lifetimes ago, I approached it from a fairly academic point of view. Unfortunately, nowadays when I say discussions, I mean letting loose the hounds on some poor sap I often don’t know. Oh, I try and rationalize my behavior – I try and single out bullies and trolls, I try to reach for snark and sarcasm rather than immediately loading the cannon of castigation, I tell myself friends stick up for friends (especially when they’re correct), and I try not to say anything to a stranger I wouldn’t say to an equally egregiously wrong, say, brother.
That’s a lot of “I try” statements there. It also still leaves a country mile wide worth of leeway for bad behavior.
It’s a bad habit because I’ve failed at “I try” too many times in the past.
I’ve let loose on former friends and family, so at least I’m consistent. The question I ask myself is, how much of it is passionate strength of my convictions and world view, and how much of it purely because it feels good? Because I have to be honest here, it does feel good. That’s a problem. That’s something to feel some shame about.
When you start to pick apart why it feels good, well, there’s where the shame comes in. A portion of it is because we all like to think we’re on the side of the good guys; we can practically feel our heroine’s hand on our shoulder as we stride into the fray. This feeling is only reinforced for me when I start to become well pleased with the sound of my own voice. Nothing gets my writing juices flowing like a galloping charge on the back of my armored moral high horse. Especially when I’m bearing down on what in my mind is unprotected infantry. The poor bastard doesn’t simply get stomped and speared, he’s gleefully stomped and speared. Savaging someone you don’t know and enjoying it is a toxic practice, no matter how much the target has it coming. And believe me, they have it coming.
I know this about myself. I believe in ruthless self examination. I used the word shame. For me, shame is an emotion whose foundations were laid from a certain parenting style, a theme reinforced and buttressed by my brushes with organized religion during my youth, and as an adult with an acceptance that sometimes, shame is an appropriate emotion to experience.
Shame is the absence of honor. Its presence is indication of a deep betrayal. What then, is being betrayed? Almost always it is a betrayal of the self. All of us incorporate things outside ourselves that help define our self image. When we betray those things, be it how a loved one sees us, a religious tenet, or a set of values we cherish, shame is the result. It is the mournful wail that accompanies an act of self abnegation. The death cry of a little identity suicide.
I often experience at least a small portion of shame when I’ve unloaded on someone I don’t know, or to put a fine point on it, towards a stranger who I think I’ve pegged rather well. That I reserve the worst of my vitriol toward bullies, brutes, and bastards is really only allowing myself behavior that I wouldn’t engage in towards any other group of people. And it would be one thing if it were effective, if my willingness to cut to the bone actually excised the cancer. There is zero evidence to support that assertion, no matter how much I wish it were so.
I’m forced to examine the possibility that the main reason I feel compelled to engage in the Facebook equivalent of handing someone their own ass is mostly because it makes me feel better. This is not a noble sentiment. Nor does it reflect well on my personal sojourn toward self betterment. In fact, it skirts dangerously close to the very behavior I allow myself to attack.
Like any other addiction, lack of vigilance often presages a fall off the wagon. Knowing your triggers, when and why you’re likely to stumble, is key. Small rituals help. I often ask myself three times if I really want to post what I’ve written. More times than not, the simple act of typing it out is enough and I can delete what I’ve written and still gain the same benefit as if I let it loose barking into the world. I ask myself if what I’m posting is at least in the framework of pushing back against intolerance. At least then I can take refuge in the notion that by being intolerant of intolerance I’m at least avoiding complicity. Finally, if I still feel the need, I remind myself of the proverb, “He is a fool who deals with fools.”
I admit though, sometimes, I simply say screw it, let the gate swing wide and let that bad monkey have himself a day.
It’s a guilty pleasure. Simply shameful.
A bad habit.
Bad monkey, bad.
I’m instituting another self appointed rule: Every time I feel I’ve gone over the line and flung my feces too forcefully, I’m donating another twenty dollars to Project Chimp.