Emotions: A Beautiful Occupation

Growing up was a difficult process; being socially awkward and dealing with a lot of personal issues and insecurities made adolescence a painful slog rather than a memorable cheerful experience peppered with fun stories and memories worth reminiscing about. Not too long ago, I’d think to myself absentmindedly that I don’t remember a time I was truly carefree; As soon as I was conscious of myself and my presence on this Earth, I was always unhappy about something, whether it be my physical body or personality or impression I thought I left on others or behavior after reflecting on the past I knew I could not go back and redo. 

Overall, I was constantly barraged by people’s opinions of me, many of which stuck with me until recently and even currently. The one that clung to me the most stubbornly is the label or thought that I am overly emotional and sensitive. 

I would easily see how I could be categorized overly sensitive after reflecting on my behavior and reactions and emotions that tended to get a hold of me. I've spent nights writing about how acutely I desired to become emotionless, wishing I could become like a robot. I've tried the negative self-talk route, mentally calling myself soft, hoping these words would stick deeply enough to change my future actions and prevent me from opening up to others, trusting easily, or allowing people to hurt me in ways my heart could not take. I’d think to myself, I can’t keep going on like this. But I always did.

I tried to harness my emotions by utilizing them in my writing in my adolescence, when I was just starting out. Even this was hard. I'd attempt to communicate the hazy image of the piece in my mind into a solid vivid work through the blinking cursor on the white screen, shutting my laptop in frustration after awkward sentence after awkward sentence formed on my screen, never coming out quite right. So many things seemed to go similarly wrong, I began to grow sick of my lack of control. My incapabilities. I was quick to label myself as incompetent and mentally tossed my hands up in frustration.

I've thought extensively about all the ways my life would be better if I was less emotional, more hardened to the world and its harsh reality checks that feels like a barrage of constant strikes to my face, often not letting the previous welts heal before smacking me again, often times harder, sometimes not allowing me a second to catch my breath before or after. Life often feels like never ending pain, does the unhappiness bucket fill at a constantly higher rate than the happiness one? Will the latter ever catch up? I wonder. I never seem to learn to prepare myself or better predict incoming hurt, not only from others but myself, from allowing myself to accept such behavior. I still take things too seriously, allowing dubious people into my life I knew better than to, thinking the best of people I should not, allowing words to hurt me. It’s always stupid, dumb, easily avoided. But evidently, I never do. 

How long before the excuse that I'm still young runs dry? But learning to mitigate and compartmentalize my emotions better only came with age, not from the self deprecating lessons I attempted to forcefully “teach” myself. I was impatient, all I wanted was to escape the sheer depth of the feelings I'd have over seemingly simple or shallow things that others seemed to handle easier. Now I know that everyone feels things, some more than others, but that does not lessen the blows of these events. I was naive and jealous, all the constant comparing was probably a coping mechanism. I wasn’t interested in the long haul, I wanted relief, quick. The pain of memories and wounds that never seem to scab over feels bottomless at times. I hurt. I cry. I feel. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop or if I’ll ever become more numb to the world and persistent drawing of bad cards. The only change is that now I don’t know if I want to. 

Even today I struggle with the push and pull, although better than younger me did, I hope. Sometimes the thought of a painful experience washes over me and is enough to move me to tears; I discreetly wipe them away as if my eyes were just watering, adjusting my sleeve so the splotch of dampness won’t show. I've gotten used to this automatic reaction to talking or even thinking about the past, do tears ever truly dry up? I hope to continue to get better at allowing myself to cry, to heal and allow myself to feel things, to let the emotions wash over me like a shower of water and then naturally move down the drain, out of sight out of mind, if only for a little while,  but that little bit of peace and relief can feel priceless. Feelings are just feelings, not life sentences or labels.

I’ve realized that my emotionality has become one of my greatest strengths. I am able to show a great depth of compassion and kindness towards others. I am able to effectively and even sometimes artfully express myself and my feelings to others. Communication has proven to be one of my most powerful skills. I doubt I would be able to write in the manner and extent in which I have if it weren't for my control or lack thereof over my emotions and feelings that I was so quick to denounce as a flaw when I was younger. 

Growing up is difficult and I would not trade turning back time to more awkward and painful times in my life for any amount of money. But growing up has allowed me to understand myself better and harness the part of myself I hated so ardently, so I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. And feelings are beautiful, albeit painful at times, evidently. I sometimes think of my emotions like a job that I must manage that The Little Prince speaks of, “It is a beautiful occupation. And since it is beautiful, it is truly useful.”