Sometimes It’s Not Jealousy. It Just May Be a Sign to Redirect

Athena Dixon on finding pleasure in the joy of others

A few years ago, when I was much more heavily involved in the machinations of the internet, the idea of flouncing was a hot topic. A person, usually one who thought the spotlight should be on them or who had recently lost it, would make a dramatic exit from whatever website, message board, or platform that had the bad sense to shift the light from them to someone or something new. I always pictured flouncing as a person puffing out their chest, dramatically turning away from the crowd, and exiting while listening for the collective gasp about their departure. A child stomping away with their virtual ball, perhaps.

Other times, flouncing was a single post announcing the need to step away from the internet or a cryptic tweet about needing time away. These kinds of posts were always hard to separate from a true need to disconnect. Social media moves a mile a minute and it’s easy to get tumbled about in the speed of it and be overwhelmed. But because I've been guilty of putting up a post or two about stepping away, I know the other side of that honest desire is a need to see who would even care if I was gone. That kind of flounce, from the inside, is nowhere near disconnected. It’s scrolling and not liking; avoiding watching stories so you remain hidden; pretending not to know what’s going on in the lives of the people around you. It’s terrible, I know. It’s childish. But it’s a sign, too. It’s a symptom of something much larger about myself, at least.

It stems from what I think are equal parts jealousy, fear, and competition. Each of these feelings, when unbalanced, have pulled me into some of the greatest flounces of my life. There was the Great Flounce of 2011. I deleted every single one of my social media accounts because I figured no one really cared if I was around anyway. I was hurt, watching the lives of people I loved and considered friends, moving on without me so I figured I would do them a favor by erasing myself completely. I lasted about three months before I was back online. At least once a year, and sometimes more depending on what is happening in my extended community, I make it a point to announce a break. It’s never really dramatic, but it serves as a marker that there’s something off balance in me and I need to correct it.

So what’s the main reason I do this social flouncing? Fear of not being good enough. Jealousy that someone else is getting a foot up in the literary world while I feel as if I’m standing still. Competition that mostly exists in my own brain and nowhere in the actual real world.

We know that social media is the highlight reel of our lives. Things tend to look glossy and beautiful. We flick our thumbs and we see people in love; people traveling the world; book deals and book tours; prizes awarded; the endlessly cool places, clothes, and habits of those we choose to follow. And sometimes we’ll look down into our laps and see our free hand balancing takeout while zoning out on the sofa. Or we’ll stare at the blinking cursor on the page because the words won’t come. Maybe we’ll silence our morning alarm and rise for yet another day, another year, in a cubicle when all we want to do is create our art. And this is where the fear, jealousy, and competition take hold.

I know how it manifests for me. Some days I have to remind myself to unscrew my face because it’s shifted into sadness or anger. It’s not anger at the person whose life I’m virtually observing. It’s anger at myself because I am convinced I’m not doing enough. If I was it would be me with that good thing. The sadness is rooted in that fear I mentioned. I get sad because I’m terrified that just maybe I will never know what it’s like to live the creative dreams, or the writer’s life, that lives in my heart. That all rolls into competition.

I’ve joked with a friend or two that I have a secret archnemesis who doesn’t know we are in a shadowy battle. I see this other writer doing the things I wish I could, and to be honest have in some cases, and I feel my skin heat. Not because I think they don’t deserve it, but because I feel as if I do, too. So I push myself to do more, to be more, to catch up. I have no idea if this person, or anyone else, is looking at me in the exact same manner. Maybe there’s someone watching my life scroll by on the feed and their face screws up and their vision turns a little green, too. I wouldn’t fault them because I’m the exact same way.

And since I recognize when I am being a little dramatic, or a bit irrational, I’ve learned to redirect myself. It’s not a perfect science. I still have the urge to slink away from the world and lick my imaginary, and sometimes self-inflicted, wounds. I’m not perfect by a long shot, but I’m trying. I redirect in a couple of ways. The biggest one is trying to find the joy and pleasure in someone else’s win. It’s moving myself from the idea of feast or famine when it comes to not only creative opportunities, but also life’s upswings. There’s no shortage of love or happiness or creativity and those in my orbit are not taking any of that away from me if they possess it for themselves. There is only the possibility for more.

What do I mean by that? It means their joy, their wins, and their happiness trickle down to me. I genuinely love and care for the people in my inner circle and those in my extended community. I want them to win, so what am I putting into the universe when I want to flounce instead of standing in that light? It cheapens those victories and more than anything I don’t want that. I want the people in my community to be happy for whatever gift they’ve been given either personally or professionally. The more they win, the more joy they spread, the more it leaks out into the world around them. The more it fills up those they love and on and on and on. So I shift my focus.

What in their joy is making me feel like I need to hide? What in their happiness am I latching onto and then creating a sense of lack within myself? Am I feeling this way because I haven’t put in the work and am afraid to admit that? My feelings could stem from a myriad of places but what’s important is to determine where I should focus.

I choose to focus on the joy, the happiness, the laughter. That is the correct path because it leads me out of the desire to disappear because I’ve convinced myself I don’t measure up. That same path takes me away from the twisted idea that the only way I can be appreciated is via my absence. It stops me from something even more detrimental than these feelings of inadequacy and fear.

Focusing on the joy of others forces me to stop tying up my value, my worth, or my happiness into the idea of production and supplication. I don’t have to drain myself to deserve the same kinds of joy I envy. There is no requirement that I do anything other than continue to live my life on and off the feed. And if that joy spills onto the timeline? I hope that it sparks something giddy and wonderful in whoever may come across it. I hope the same for myself, too.

Athena Dixon is the author of essay collections The Incredible Shrinking Woman and The Loneliness Files and her work appears in publications such as Harper's Bazaar, Shenandoah, Grub Street, Narratively, and Lit Hub among others. She is a Consulting Editor for Fourth Genre and the Nonfiction/Hybrid Editor for Split/Lip Press.