When We Feel

We all have our coping mechanisms.

Some people choose denial, some people take all the blame, some people overly worry, some people get frustrated and stressed.

I don’t care.

That’s my coping mechanism.

Back in 8th or 9th grade, for whatever dumb reason I no longer care for, I was in the guidance counselor’s room and had a breakdown and, crying, said, “I keep saying ‘I don’t care’ over and over because I think I do care. A lot.”

Irrespective of the fact that I’ve psychoanalyzed myself and know it’s how I function, I don’t stop.

It’s just what I do.

I box up all my stress into cute little boxes in a nice corner in my head and wrap ’em up in pretty little bows. And selectively decide which ones to open and when.

Sure I’ll complain about how salty that snack was or gossip about my latest crushing dilemma – which I’m happy to say have basically been nonexistant lately.

But when it comes to the big things – and I mean the ones that can’t possibly have positive results… I leave ’em boxed.

No, not about whether or not I got the job I applied for or whether or not that guy I think I kinda maybe kinda like, if only he’d figure out I’m trying to get his attention… Those, I get excited about and in fact find least stressful. Because the worst that can happen in I get rejected. I used to think that was the worst, but I’ve learned it’s not. It’s one of the better options.

I’m talking about those things in life that no one can control… whether or not you have COVID or pneumonia or some other sickness that takes you back to that awful time you had pneumonia once a few years ago, but even more that time your sibling had it much worse when they were much younger and much littler and you weren’t sure they’d make it out alive. Whether or not your parent who’s stuck in the hospital and is the first person to have tought you courage, honesty, responsibility, and happiness and without whom you cannot live will make it out a alive.

Things like that.

You don’t cry. Except when you’re alone and by yourself.

You don’t say you’re worried or scared to anyone but yourself.

Not because you’re worried about being seen as weak, but what if you jinx it.

But even worse than this… what if you make someone else care too much? Cry too much? Be worried about you?

For someone who’s all about communication, who loves to talk and is an open book, I don’t like talking when I’m crying. Maybe I’ll tell you afterward – in a year or two when it’s a non-issue or at least not as much of an issue.

Maybe, after so much time has passed, I’ll finally tell you I spent that summer I spent in India away from him crying myself to sleep, miserable, and all I wanted to do was go back home and I didn’t care if it meant summer would be cut short and I’d start school early if I had to.

Maybe I’ll finally admit that I was terrified for the first friend who told me they were depressed and suicidal and told me not to tell anyone and in the end I had zero sympathy or guilt when I asked for help on their behalf and that is why ’til this day I refuse to apologize because I’d rather risk our friendship than my sanity and their life.

Maybe I’ll say that I do have a personal interest in immagration laws and government policies and the reason I don’t vote is only because I’m too afraid I’ll vote for the wrong people and I’ll be playing god with too many other lives, like my bestest friend who got deported. I’ll be putting strain on other other pairs of best friends and that’s why I have no liking towards getting involved in politics.

When asked, I say… I don’t care about vacations to India (unless it’s with the people I love). I don’t care about suicide and depression (unless I’m able to help them). I don’t care about politics (unless I can actually influence someone to make a non-stupid decision).

And I don’t care about the fact that this morning I suspected I had COVID or pneumonia. Expect for the fact that it reminds me of the time I once had pneumonia and had to swallow these ill-tasting meds that made me want to throw up and have officially made me unable to swallow tablets ever again. And the time my baby brother had it, a lot more severely, and seeing him still four-foot-something in a hospital bed – the first time I saw anyone I loved in a hospital – made me want to cry and beg for me to be taken instead but thank god if god exists that he survived and you wouldn’t even know he was ever sick today with the amount of energy he has. And I’m terrified that if I do have COVID – fuck what happens to me – what if I pass it on to someone else and they get it worse?

I don’t have COVID.

Or pneumonia.

It turns out it’s just a normal cold and I’m fine… It’ll go away in a few days.

But about an hour of waiting for test results was enough for me to spiral and be inspired to begin to write this post.

Back in high school, I had this one teacher who’d basically hit pause on lessons, tell us as a teacher he cared less about what subject he taught and more about the life lessons. At least once a week, there’d be no running laps or playing ball. This one week, he talked about overcompensation. How some people take their insecurities and act in an opposite way.

Suffices to say that’s basically it: I care. A lot. Sometimes too much. And I spiral. And insteand to expressing my spirals openly, I close myself up and tell everyone to shut up with their worrying and that they’re making a big deal out of nothing. Because that’s easier than saying I’m even more freaked out than they are.

I’m working on it.

There are a handful of people I love and who love me in this world. Of them, a few, I trust with my life, but more importantly, my secrets. And of them, there are exactly two who don’t cry when I cry. And exactly one of them is the one who’s always available as a shoulder to cry on. And it was him that taught me that I’m entitled to my feelings and I can be rational while also being scared or sad or upset. And I think that’s why he’s the first one I type away a text to about all the impending doom in my life and damn it if I ever tell anyone else.

Because I still remember the few times that people either told me I was self-obsessed, not to cry, or they cried for me. And I couldn’t take it.

But as I said, I’m working on it.

It’s strange but I realized this morning that rationality cannot exist if you lock up your emotions. Because when you keep ’em inside, they bubble and boil and you blow up. There is no calm and rational thinking then. Better we share how we feel in small doses and make sound decisions on how to move forward and say intelligent things.

So, this is me finally pushing past text-ranting at that one friend.

I think it’s one of the reasons I write. No, I know it is. All those feelings I keep locked in, I’d throw them on a journal page or into a novel chapters through the eyes of a fictional character. But today, no more disguises.

He was right. I’m entitled to my feelings. And I’m not going to pretend like I don’t have them when it really counts.