Many years ago, when the Canadian Smooth Jazz Awards still existed, one of my musical girlfriends attended the show. She enjoyed it immensely but still could not resist a small (and very funny) “jab” at the end, when many of the musicians swarmed the stage for a final jam. After more than 15 minutes of strutting and blowing and shredding and generally showing off their considerable talents, these boys were still going strong. Yes, you heard that right … boys. None of the female musicians had joined this party. It was all the guys. Now, this was no doubt due to the fact that the stats were heavily lobsided in favour of male instrumentalists and there wasn’t much space for female vocalists in this jam. Nonetheless, it was a testosterone-fueled fiesta on that stage.

“Hmph!” she exclaimed with disdain. “That is nothing more than musical masturbation!”

I was dumfounded. And amused. She had a point, yes she did. As talented as these dudes were, they were also showing off. Massaging themselves in the glow of the limelight, as it were. Seeking gratification from their adoring fans without (much) thought to the ensemble. They were quite publicly getting their musical rocks off and enjoying every minute.

I am sure that many folks in the audience also enjoyed that provocative display. And then there were those who knew the real show was over and … left. To each his own.

But that term “musical masturbation” stayed with me. Over the years I witnessed it time and time again. Not really a big deal. Just a funny term that stuck.

Until now, almost 15 years later, when I witness this same type of public display daily. On social media. Primarily on Facebook, probably because the population there is decidedly older. Turns out young people do not so readily fall prey to this affliction. The affliction I have begun to call “Emotional Masturbation.”

What is this disorder, you might ask?

To put it simply, emotional masturbation is when you broadcast all of your pain, sorrow, fear, suffering, longing and torment to the masses. It is when you publicly mark the anniversary of the death of any person or pet you have ever loved, reminding us all (just in case we may have forgotten) how much you feel, how much you ache and how much you suffer. Often in the guise of gratitude and wisdom, you rip open old wounds, pound your chest with indignity or weep into your hanky mournfully, prostrating yourself (quietly or dramatically) before all your friends, in hopes of …

What?

In hopes of what?

What is it that you hope to achieve by social media-ing the fuck out of your pain?

Before you go getting your knickers in a knot (and unfriending me), please ask yourself that very question. What exactly is it that you hope to achieve?

Maybe it is simply catharsis? Perhaps the only way we can deal with our own anguish is to share it with our tribe. Maybe our community needs to cry together? Or, at the very least, watch our tears fall.

Okay. Fair enough. But how the hell did we survive BEFORE Facebook?

Maybe it is guilt? Perhaps we feel obliged to mark death anniversaries (and other tragedies) loudly and publicly lest we be thought unfeeling. Or self-centered.          

Okay. But as we all know, life does go on. Living “backwards” may seem noble but it’s highly impractical for current well-being. That’s not to say these anniversaries should be ignored. Remembering and honouring love is always a good thing. But that can be accomplished quietly, every day. Can’t it?

Maybe it’s a need for validation?

Maybe it is a need for validation. Isn’t that what social media is all about? Publicizing our life and then waiting for validation?

When my dad died there was no social media. We received cards and flowers and when I returned to work, most folks offered sympathy and then ran for the hills. Death makes people uncomfortable. We are not a society terribly comfortable with grief.

Twenty years later, when my mother died, I did a post on Facebook. Very much a ‘celebration of her amazing life’. I accepted all the ensuing platitudes with gratitude and love. And that was that. On occasion since, I may mention my parents and I am always delighted to share old photos, but I do not broadcast my grief time and time again. Same with my dog. When Shiloh passed, I let the world know. I did not post endless memories and I do not express endless remorse. Publicly.

When I do miss my parents and my dog and other relatives and friends and pets who have died, I do it privately. Or in the company of close friends. I do not feel the need, nor do I find the worth in very publicly advertising my sorrow. Much like I do not feel the need to publicly masturbate. Is there nothing left to sacred solitude?

I am a great believer in “living forward.” We are all coloured by our pasts, both the tragedy and joy we experienced. But to spend too much time dwelling in yesterday can only be counterproductive, both physically and mentally, to empowering the now. And the future.

There has been much scientific discussion regarding the relationship between stress and disease. About how stress causes and exacerbates dis-ease. Also, about how the suppressing of emotions leads to stress which leads to physical disease. I get all of that. And I do practice emotional “release” almost daily.

I just don’t do it on Facebook.

Because (in my opinion) there is a huge difference between necessary and private emotional release and unnecessary public emotional masturbation.

I know, I know. You’re doing it for you. Not for validation. For you. For yourself.

I guess.

Please know that if you ever need my (private) ear to express grief and sorrow, bereavement or heartache, I am just a phone call away. And it you ever wonder why I do not “like” or comment on your public presentation … now you know. I truly believe you are just hurting yourself. Over and over again.

I do believe that, to a certain degree, pain and joy are a choice. Just look at that guy who lived in an iron lung for over 70 years! I also believe that if you choose to continually publicize your pain, it takes on a life of its own. YOUR life.

Why not choose joy instead? If you must trumpet, then trumpet joy. And if that seems impossible at this time, maybe choose quiet. Just so that when joy does show up, it doesn’t have to compete with all that boisterous blowing and strutting.

Perhaps our pain is better served in private community, where it can be acknowledged and nurtured.

Perhaps.