I'm not too good with emotions, which is why I write. Where some people can say, "I feel this way because of this," what I say is "The sun doesn't feel right on my skin." I tend not to understand the details of my feelings.
Emotions are these strange family members that walk in unannounced. They expect attention--a lot of attention--and they have me running around in circles and I don't know why. Tonight I'm feeling as if three or four strange family members have moved into my house. They aren't letting me write, they're bringing up the same concerns over and over. And it doesn't matter if it's something small, but they keep spinning the top across the kitchen floor and each time, I watch it again and again.
If it sounds as if I'm speaking in code, in a way I am. As I said, I never learned to speak about how I felt. In our family, the recommended feeling was happy--we either felt good, or we didn't feel at all. So when I do feel down, I'm never sure how to approach it or why it's happening. It's sort of like being stuck in a ditch and the more I spin my wheels, the deeper I get. My mind works *against* me in such situations. It keeps replaying pain like some album stuck in a groove.
And even as I write this, I know I'll regret it in the morning and I will delete it because it's so uncomfortable to discuss these feelings, but it's more uncomfortable not to, which again is why I write. I write because I have no better outlet for dealing with myself and my concerns. It sounds so self-fulfilling, such ego, such me and my problems (sung to me and my shadow), but writing it down somehow allows me to move forward, to push the car out of the ditch and get some traction.
And tomorrow I hope to awake with a good feeling of all is well, of "I must have just been overtired," of the world is a good place and people are mostly good. While the sirens sound, "We'll be okay, we'll be okay..."
