I wanted to feel genuinely happy for my friends when something wonderful happened to them, or to find that blanketed peace of getting lost in a movie or a book plot, or to feel the simple joy in a meandering conversation, or to remember what had felt so pure and clear about my relationship with Jake at one time, or to even feel enough sadness that I might cry spontaneously, without the help of a bottle of wine. But over time I only felt a few things in extremes — anxiety, shame, and occasionally excitement — and I mistook the vicissitudes for emotional depth.
