Okay, so this is going to sound… well, I don’t even know what it sounds like. I’m up at 2 AM again, probably because my sympathetic nervous system is stuck in overdrive after another delightful day of molar extractions and explaining fluoride’s merits. Usually, this means I’m obsessing over whether Mrs. Henderson’s crown margin is perfectly sealed, but tonight, it’s… different. It’s my brother. He called, again. Overdue rent, utilities about to be cut. The usual cascade of financial exigency he seems to attract. And I… I said no. Like, a definitive, no-room-for-negotiation, *no*. I keep replaying the conversation. His voice, that slightly whiny, aggrieved tone he adopts when he wants something but also wants to convey that his current predicament is entirely someone else’s fault. My own voice was remarkably steady, almost clinical. I explained that my finances are currently allocated to specific investment vehicles and a rather aggressive mortgage payment for my — let’s be honest — ridiculously large house in the ’burbs. The one with the meticulously maintained lawn that’s the envy of block. My parents, of course, would have mortgaged their souls for him. It’s expected. The older, successful sibling, the one who “has her act together” (a phrase I loathe, incidentally, because it implies an innate state rather than a constant, exhausting performance), should naturally provide. It's practically a biological imperative in our family system. But I didn't. And now, instead of the expected relief of not having to bail him out *again*, I’m experiencing this… dysregulation. A vague, persistent ache in my chest that doesn’t quite qualify as anxiety, more like a dull, internal pressure. It’s not regret, I don’t think. There’s a distinct absence of remorse. Is it guilt? What *is* guilt, really, from a physiological standpoint? Because if it’s an unpleasant somatic response to a perceived moral transgression, then this feels like a faulty circuit. I’m not sure what to label this specific emotional state. It’s like watching a data point I can’t categorize. Anyone else ever feel like they’re observing their own emotional reactions from behind a very clean pane of glass? Like you know you *should* feel something, but the actual visceral sensation just… isn’t there, or is distorted? Am I the only one who finds themselves searching for the correct diagnostic term for their own internal life? Because right now, I just feel… off-kilter. And I can’t figure out why.