“[Your words] are never too sad. They are human. And altogether wonderful. Don’t let fear of what others may think hinder your creativity.”
I try to keep these words in my mind whenever I feel as though my thoughts are shut in and locked up. As someone who writes for grades and approval and degrees, I hate writing. I get so caught up in the commas and the run-on sentences that I struggle to get my words out of my head. Sometimes, like recently, the inside of my mind feels like a lake, and the words I have are just drowning in there, hanging on to the last little hope they have of ever surfacing into the world.
I can’t do things that make me think too hard, which, as a graduate student, is quite ridiculous. No, I mean I can’t do the things that make me feel too hard, I suppose. I can’t watch television shows that involve the harsh realities of this world. I know trafficking exists. I want it to be gone. But how is Hollywood helping by torturing me with screams of women? I never was able to watch the dog die in the movies (or the horse, or the cat, or any other animal). I remember catching Lassie on one day as a young teen, thinking “I’m grown. I can handle this.” Lassie could make anyone cry, and I was no different. I can’t watch the news. Or read it, even. I can’t get involved in political discussions—even if it’s something I want to be passionate about.
It’s not that I want to be one of those big birds that stick their heads in the sand. It’s not that I want to have to shelve books that have sad parts in them that I can’t bring myself to read. It’s not that I don’t want to feel those emotions, even. I just can’t. Have you ever felt yourself wanting to cry, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it? Have you ever watched a balloon with latex so thick that it wouldn’t burst until it was at its very worst?
I follow—followed—a man on TikTok who did videos with his daughter. They were funny together, and it reminded me a lot of me and my dad. Maybe that’s the reason I followed him in the first place, I don’t know. But I’ve followed him for a few years now, occasionally watching whatever he posts about his silly daughter or watching them fight on camera like my dad and I used to. And then the other day, I opened that black hole of an app, and in front of his name someone had added “In memory of.” I thought for a second. Why would they do that? Is that some sort of joke that they’re doing? Some prank that’s gone too far? I went to his page and saw videos posted recently, and I noticed a Go Fund Me link at the top of his profile. I scrolled down a little and watched drafts that his family had posted—videos he’d taken and not posted to the world. I scrolled back up to the Go Fund Me link to find out he committed suicide. This funny man who seemingly had everything…he was gone.
Obviously, this is one of those sad things I can’t do. It’s sent me into some sort of mini spiral that I haven’t been able to control. At first, I wanted to be angry. How could a man willingly leave his family behind? A family whose love for him was so obvious? And then I felt sorry for being angry. I felt sorry for him to feel so hopeless that he saw no other way. I felt sorry for his family. I felt sorry for the people who feel that way now. Hopelessness happens to us all, even if it’s for a brief moment.
I don’t know if it’s gymnastics that ruined me or if it would’ve been my personality otherwise. Crying in front of people is one of my worst fears. I would rather sing (possibly in the nude) in front of people—and I’m not really a good singer. I can carry a tune, but I’m no Nashville star. I like to blame it on my coaches who would try to stop me from crying whenever I was upset about something, but maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s, like my mom likes to joke, because I’m broken. (This came about because I laugh when people get hurt, and I don’t mean to. I laughed when I dropped a candle on my toe—prior to saying every bad word in my head I could think of). Somewhere, the electrical wiring of emotion must’ve gotten crossed inside my body. Up until last week, I could count the number of people on one hand who I’ve cried in front of in the last five years. It doesn’t matter what happened last week, and I think people were too distracted to even notice the girl crying to herself and trying to blink her tears away, but let’s just say the balloon popped.
I know this is a mess. I know it sounds like a ramble. But maybe, just maybe, someone else out there feels like a mess. Maybe the words in their head are drowning, too, and this is some weird lifeboat situation for them. I say this time of year is hard, but all times of the year are hard. Holidays. Birthdays. Death anniversaries. Honestly, I’d like for a lot of people to not understand these feelings. They’re stinky, no-good, rotten feelings. But if you do understand, know you’re not alone. Know that you’re allowed to cry. Know that it doesn’t last forever. Know that, eventually, you will cry or speak your words—whichever you need.
Comments