I have a weird relationship with emotions. For pretty much as long as I can remember, my emotions have been a bit on the strong end. Call it what you will – melodramatic, sensitive, emotional, high strung, neurotic, crazy, passionate. I’ve pretty much heard it all. A lot of times this is an awesome thing. I’m glad I cry happy tears at an awesome summer rain. I’m glad I am able to sit there in actual awe when I’m watching some pretty mundane task that my children do. I’m glad Magoo knows that mommy just cries a lot and that it doesn’t mean she’s sad. I’ve taught her that mommies just have special tears that they get because they just love their little ones so much.
It’s a trait that I really have grown to like about myself. But it wasn’t always like that.
For the longest time, I would try to temper that. I would get embarrassed by the jubilee I felt over a good marching band at a summer parade. I was self conscious about the way my insides would feel like they were going to burst when I would hear a particularly well crafted lyric. Because people think us melodramatic people a bit odd. A bit too much. It definitely doesn’t make us one of the “cool kids.”
Then I had someone who I respect deeply tell me that I “live out loud.” And it wasn’t said in a bad way. It wasn’t said in a condescending manner. And it was said by someone who knew me pretty well. I think that was part of what helped me slowly come to terms with my more sensitive side. I was able to own it a bit more.
But like all things in life, this “loud” nature has a dark side. My joy has always felt strong. My heart flutters way more than is probably normal. But it’s not just those happy emotions. The dark ones are strong as well.
Anxiety can take me, within an eighth of a moment, to absolute terror that takes sometimes weeks to dissipate. Depression, when it clings on, is like a lead ball chained to my ankle, and it keeps me down more strongly and more fiercely than any physical tether ever could.
I think it’s because of those feelings that I have learned to fight, almost instantaneously, to any negative emotion that shows up. I have severe anxiety. In the (not really all that distant) past, I have suffered from probably moderate-strong depression. I know that if I let them take hold, hold they will. And so I fight. I’m always at the ready. Like troops on the front line, I know that danger is always there, always waiting, always ready to attack, and I know that I must attack first. I can’t let it in. I can’t let it get even the slightest of grips.
And this is good. It’s why over the past couple of years, my anxiety has been here but it hasn’t been in charge. It’s why (even though this could change at any moment) I consider myself winning my battle against these afflictions. It’s why I am able to live my life. I go to counseling. I take my medication. But those two things won’t do anything unless I know how to fight and unless I fight well. And I think I do.
But recently, I have noticed that perhaps my trigger finger is a bit too twitchy. I jump in a bit too quickly. I fight just a bit too hard.
When the real anxiety and the real depression come in, I can’t possibly fight too hard. But when other negative emotions come in, perhaps the heavy approach is a bit detrimental.
Take this evening. We had a lovely weekend, and today was the best day thus far. Magoo was in a Memorial Day Parade and then we took the girls on a train ride (the first for the youngest two) to a park about half an hour away where we played for awhile and then hopped back on the train. It was really so much fun.
But still this evening, I found myself feeling just a bit melancholy. A bit confused. A bit overwhelmed.
And I attacked. I tried to talk myself out of it. I tried to focus on gratitude. I tried to analyze it. In essence, I tried everything I could to get rid of the meloncholy.
And the same thing happened a few days ago. I heard some news about someone I don’t even know that well that made me angry and confused and sad, and instead of accepting that this was a very normal reaction to the events, instead I fought it. I searched for information; I analyzed it to death; I searched for information again and again and again.
But what if sometimes it is just okay to feel bad? What if that’s life? And what if by attempting to cut off the (non-disfunctinal) negative feelings of life, I’m cutting myself off from half of the experience of life?
Maybe it’s okay to sometimes feel bad. Maybe sometimes it’s okay to even really feel bad.
And this might all be quite common sense to you all, but as usual, I have a tendency to prove that common sense isn’t necessarily common at all. But I’ve had a rough ride with those negative emotions. They’ve brought me down too far before. But maybe it’s about time I learn to trust myself and my ability to cope with them. Maybe it’s about time I let some of them sit with me for a bit. Maybe they won’t eat me.
And if they do… well I’ve climbed myself out before. And maybe that’s just a risk that is worth taking.