On Feeling
How do I feel so mighty small/ When I’m struggling to feel at all?
It’s been hard to admit, but for an uncomfortably long amount of time, I have struggled to feel. Anything, really. To open up and let people in. Experiencing all the big emotions of life; the emotions which lend life its meaning.
Like passively observing your very own life through a thick sheet of frosted glass. Sounds are muffled, everything’s a little blurry. Sometimes, a moment unfolds that seems wrong, and you bang against the wall, with no impact at all. There is nothing to do. Nothing to change. And your hands are tied by helplessness.
It does not only go one way. I can neither be sad nor truly happy. Sorrow is the same as joy and both are a blank space. Alas, equally indifferent.
A moment is worth nothing when you didn’t feel anything experiencing it. But a bit of emotion, a little love and it’ll be carved into time forever. And there are moments like this. Very rarely, I have to let out a laugh that is filled with genuine delight. Or cry a tear that takes with it a part of the sorrow. In most instances, these reactions occur because of a soothing piece of music, an honest scene in a film, a poem. It may only be few words or a distinct look.
Every time I try to riddle out my situation, why I am feeling this way, it comes down to a quote from Call Me By Your Name:
What lies ahead is going to be very difficult. […] Fear not. It will come. At least I hope it does. And when you least expect it. Nature has cunning ways of finding our weakest spot. Just remember: I am here. Right now you may not want to feel anything. Perhaps you never wished to feel anything. And perhaps it’s not with me that you’ll want to speak about these things. But feel something you [obviously] did.
In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we’d want to be forgotten is no better. We rip so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing, so as not to feel anything—what a waste!
[…] Right now there’s sorrow. I don’t envy the pain. But I envy you the pain.
I cannot help but fear that I’ve made this mistake. To shut myself off from despair, from love, from anger, heartache, warmth and trust—at times when they would’ve been my best company. Hold your enemies close.
Back behind the glass barrier. I look, almost envious, at the way some people are so openly endearing with each other. Oh, how I long to be this open again. To overcome this force inside me, this vicious creature snatching at anyone making an attempt to come close. Yearning, followed by its instant antidote, fear.
I don’t know if this is a fear of finally letting go of something that has felt so comfortably painful, or whether I’m frightened to—potentially—wade through similar waters again. This does not mean I regret anything I have experienced. I do reproach what has become of me in consequence.
Some days, I worry I have turned into a bitter person that deserves not to be held or cared for. That every act of kindness is pretentious, as it comes from the mind, and not from the heart. I sit with this concern until it becomes almost restful.
I don’t recognize myself in the coldness of the daylight. Though, there can be warmth: friends, who deliberately choose to make time to see me. Moments when they reach out for my presence or thoughts are so deeply grounding. They give me my life back, and they help me remember, that when it all comes down, they will be there. And I can be there, too. And my life will, at some point, be there as well.
I know that shying away from love and openness is not the way. And I sincerely long for the day, when I start believing it again.