Scrubs (a lot of spoilers, both about television and my psyche, below)

I’ve been suffering a little lately from thinking too much and writing too little. And obviously a complete inability to express any of my feelings or frustrations to real people (well, this isn’t usually a problem, but I only really like doing it when I’m in a good mood). So its time for a vent, and, well, a return to the good old form, so I’m going talk about me for a while.

At least part of the result of my recent pent-upness was my nearly breaking down while watching the finale of Scrubs tonight. I always joke when I talk about my reactions to watching films; saying that the last time I was genuinely moved [to tears] while watching a film was when I was six and Optimus Prime died in Transformers: the Movie. Not wanting to denigrate the poignancy of that moment (I’ll never forget the passing of the Matrix to Ultra Magnus), but truth be told, particularly recently, a number of books and films and television programs have had a disproportionate effect on me. Or maybe I’m just getting soft in my middle-middle-age.

But (and most of these I’ve blogged about recently), the MASH finale, the Friends finale (least of these), Kavalier and Clay, and tonight, the season finale of Scrubs, all drove me far further into emotional exposition than I’ve gone in a while.

I don’t really know what the specific causes of my sudden empathy is; there are specific aspects of each that struck a very powerful chord with me; with the MASH finale it was Hawkeye’s breakdown; with Friends it was the fantastical closing of the Ross/Rachel deal (tired, but I was touched), and with Scrubs it was the much more real and much more tragic failure of JD and Elliot to normalise their friendship after the love yous/love you nots came out uneven. With Kavalier and Clay it was the travesty that Sammy Clay’s life became (at least as I read it).

The common thread, and it may sound tenuous, but I guess that’s why this is about me, is the sense of alienation that surrounds each of the narrators (other than Friends, which I just don’t rate highly enough to attribute depth of character to any of the six. Except maybe Chandler). Hawkeye, JD, Sam Clay; despite the friends, teams and family that surround each of them, the stories are theirs: they are at the centre, their struggles are our struggles and ultimately they are alone.

I guess this mirrors a sense of isolation I’ve been feeling lately. It’s kind of hard to explain; despite living with my brother and having a (large) set of generally incredibly supportive friends and a job which provides both intellectual and social stimulation and continuing sense of affirmation, I’ve been feeling increasingly… well, just, separate. Distinct.

It’s a bizarre sensation. I am getting a lot more mileage out of my fiction, but it’s damn tiring. Methinks a thought-free vacation is called for.

[Listening to: Perfect Love Song – Blak Twang & Lynden David Hall – (04:40)]