The Gravity Of Feeling

It’s bedlam.  The way I feel in my heart. A cacophony.  An inbox with several junk folders, compartmentalized into all the shit I could possibly store.   Sometimes just on Wednesdays.  And then most times, all of the other days.
It is not something you can explain away to someone.  How upon being put into the universe, you were given more empathy & emotion than you actually feel like you can handle but you do (you have to) & so you flood others with what might be considered an affliction.  A scab someone else picks on the daily.  A scab that bleeds & heals & bleeds again for the rest of your life.  And you start to really fully realize this when you’re in your mid-30’s, replying (and apologizing) to someone who e-mailed (chastised) you about your blog full of, (I bet you guessed right!) feelings.

It’s hard living in the pace of now.  I’m so tired.  Of news.  Of constant contact.  When I first loved, I laid on the kitchen floor twirling a land line chord around my finger, impressed at the balls of the teenage boys who called with the chance that my dad might answer.  And now, someone might be dead, dying or cheating on you if they haven’t responded to a text in an appropriate window of time.  (Anything past 2 hours is too fucking long). #girlfriendhack
Speaking of phones, I spent 6 hours in a cell-phone store 5 weeks ago. I have only exaggerated this number for the 30 minutes I left to get a chiropractic adjustment but still, it was literally, 6 hours. I went there because my text messages were not sending, not receiving or simply deleting themselves like some kind of futuristic asshole.  In the time that I spent there, not only did I become an honorary employee (there is a $70 re-stocking fee, Kathy) but I thought about how sad it was that I was most concerned I would lose electronic correspondence.  I was desperate to save these pieces of me. Maybe I needed validation.  Of when people told me good & nice things.  Of firsts & I love you’s & pictures that stirred homesickness.  Of knowing I could remember things if I needed to. Perhaps just proof.   That I didn’t make all the good stuff up.  Because sometimes it’s hard to remember. That it existed as a precursor.  That on the lonely days, there was once a day that you didn’t feel bereft of utter bliss.  I kept my shit together but  my winged eyeliner was at risk when even the upgrade to a new tellie didn’t solve the problem & suddenly all texts from both phones were gone.  Maybe they were in the cloud but Jesus does anyone know what the cloud is?  What does it do? Who’s in there? Is it a series of tubes like the internet?
They’re back now.  I got some hand-written directions on a Post-It from my new best friends & I was able to backup or restore or I did something that involved checking & clicking & losing my adult mind.  But goddammit Kathy, why did I feel so frenzied?

I’ve done so much apologizing, just because things move me in ways that irritate people devoid of knowing why.  All my life I’ve felt bad for something.  I feel bad for feeling bad.  I feel bad that that sounds so dramatic. But I’m tired of that, too.
I spend so much time deciding if what I’m doing or saying is befitting instead of just saying what is simply there.  The thing I am actually screaming from the inside.  Aren’t we all beyond that?  Too old? Too prone to imploding? Why does everything need to stay unsaid?  Wouldn’t everything be a little easier if we weren’t in constant hiding, ffs (this stands for, ‘for fucks sake’)?
I confess my love for people every day.  I tell co-workers & relatives & the best of friends & maybe in my head, the cell phone guys.
Love (& feelings) don’t need to be profound or erudite.  They can be simple & sweet. Reasonably, if we all took some seconds to recognize that the tiny things make up the big things, maybe matters of the heart wouldn’t look so scary.  Maybe it wouldn’t feel so bad when it shifted into another form after it’s gone a little stagnant.  Missing someone?  Tell them.  Kind of dig someone’s vibe?  Tell them.  Like someone’s deep v t-shirt?  Tell them.  Super not in love with someone anymore?  Holy shit, tell them.

I’ve often wished for less of these things inside this body I reside in.  To not care about everything quite as much.  To eradicate this litany of analyzing every. Single. Thing. I’ve. Done.  Since I was approximately 3.   I’ve considered medications to dull them.  I’ve turned to drinks to drown them (this actually only makes them stronger).  But then again, without giving a shit, what the fuck fun would that be?

You know how people always try to have that balance with children of letting them be kids but also preventing them from being an asshole?   Do you know how hard it is to keep a balance of being a social adult when you cry at YouTube videos of choirs?  Or when your boss decides to move your office?  Or that your parents’ neighbor’s dog had porcupine quills in its face & you were worried they wouldn’t be removed quick enough?  Let me tell you.  It is monumentally, insanely, unequivocally hard.  That cry face emoji is one of my most frequently used, in fact.  Did you know that sounds also apply?  People’s moist mouth noises or burping or popping their gum or eating pistachios on the plane sends me into an irrational, murdery rage.  I’m looking at you, leg-space stealer flying out of Boston.
I watched a Ted Talk not long ago (this one) about highly sensitive people & one of the things the speaker said  was this: ‘A sadness is a deep sorrow & a joy is pure ecstasy.’  That, inherently, is how I spend all of my days.  So imagine throwing into that someone who threw you a back-handed compliment.  You will think about it until the end of times.  Remember that super basic text response? ‘Sure.’ Who says sure with no exclamation?!  Good luck sleeping tonight, lol. Or someone has decided they don’t want to be your person anymore.  It is the highest & deepest anguish.  And once it works its way through your body, you wake up & do it all over.  Another day of ebb & flow, for as long as we both shall live.

I recently saw someone I used to date but because my blood was full of gin & my bones on rapid misfire, I ran away almost immediately.  I couldn’t locate words to say except the standard adult greeting of ‘Hi,howareyouleavingalreadyokbye’.   It doesn’t matter that he was a past love.  It just matters that he was one.  It still feels like a rugburn to me. I remember feeling the heat radiate off the pavement & I thought that just maybe, it might melt me right into it.  I kind of wanted it to.  Weird?  Sure.  But an admonition, at least to myself.  That the universe might be fucking with me, but it has me where it should.

Jack Kerouac said, ‘Live, travel, adventure, bless & don’t be sorry.’
Just be good.  And be nice to the cryers, those highly sensitive ones.  They’ll work their way through those feels.  Maybe try talking to them.  They like that.

Cheers friends,
-a damsel & her dog-

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