Because it makes me want to puke.
Jealousy feels strong enough to make me weak, big enough to make me small, green enough to make me red with rage.
Jealousy feels like everything I love is speeding away from me, back turned, ears closed to my pathetic cries for attention. It makes me want to slam the door fast enough to hit them in the ass, since they are obviously leaving anyway. It makes me want to drop out of the competition I don’t remember signing up for but suddenly find myself struggling to win.
Jealousy makes me simultaneously want to elevate myself to an untouchable height, from which the world can see that I am clearly the greatest human that ever lived, and crawl under a rock, embed my lowly self in the cold mud to hide away my shame and pain.
I cannot see any healthy use for the feeling of jealousy and would love nothing better than to find a way to kill it. Drive the dagger of faith or trust or reason into its nasty little face and banish it from my heart forever. Drink the antidote to its debilitating poison so that it never again runs icy through my veins.
Never leave that point of view that I can get to sometimes, the one where I relax and feel strong in the midst of an understanding that there is nothing to fear. Even if the worst things were to happen, I am still in control of my own selfsoul, who retains her value no matter how much evidence is presented that I am not the best, no matter how little attention I might receive from those whose attention I crave, no matter how low I might feel.
Green is such a wonderful color, the color of life and growth and spring. Heck, the color of money. But Jealousy is that bile green that comes up when you’ve wretched all day and there’s nothing left, just your insides trying to jump ship. Useless, painful, self-defeating.
I hate it and I refuse to go there ever again.
(Wish me luck.)