Allow me to address the elephant in the room: I did theater in high school. And middle school. Most of elementary school, too. My entire adolescence was spent around those emotionally attuned, melodramatic singers and dancers we call thespians. You’d think this environment would allow me to wear my deepest thoughts and feelings proudly on my bedazzled sleeve. But, you’d be wrong.
After the closing night of my senior spring musical, the curtain fell and my closest friends and peers wept inconsolably, like babies, bombarded by the lights and sounds of a hospital room. I stood on stage, saying my goodbyes and slipping off my character shoes. Before I could escape the hormonal madness, a freshman walked up to me and in between sobs said, “Of course you’re not crying. You’re a robot.”
Just because I wasn’t crying, didn’t mean that I wasn’t feeling. In fact, I was feeling everything. All at once. I felt like such emotions consumed too much space. There was no room for me to cry; it feels like there never is. But upon further contemplation, being a robot—something cold and all-knowing—would be a lot easier than what I’m cursed to be: human.
I feel angry. I feel sad. I feel complete joy and pure madness. And it’s exhausting. If I could simply shut down and tune out, then maybe the world would be easier to navigate. Maybe things wouldn’t be so complicated if I pretend like I didn’t care about them. So my brows are in a constant furrow. I carry a book with an unambiguous cover so that I come as mysterious and academic. I listen to Lana Del Rey in big headphones and walk up and down the streets, keeping to myself. I remain irritated as I act cold and distant. I’m never enough so that I don’t come off as “too much”.
Sadly, I will never be made of iron and aluminum or have a circuit board, programmed with math and logic opposed to want and worry. That is, unless Elon Musk finds a way for us to put our brains in jars and our hearts in ice. This impenetrable fortress of a woman doesn’t change the fact that I often feel just like my peers did that day, crying on stage. This frigidity is simply a shield.
I’m trying to fix myself. Trying to undo the walls around me. But I still don’t have any answers as to who I should be. So, I turn to the one person who lets me be what I need to be: my mom. The following text conversation between my mother and I inspired this article and gave me a reason to be outwardly human…
This conversation put me at ease for a few moments. But I often feel like I’m not making any progress. I’m still afraid of needing people, of letting myself be loved by them, of letting myself breath and bend and break like everyone else has the bravery to do. I’m still trying every day. It hasn’t been easy but I guess it’s not supposed to be.
If you take anything away from this, I hope it’s that you find the courage to lean on people. Emotions are natural, inconvenient, but natural. Remember that hiding your feelings won’t change them, pain is inevitable, and my mother is (almost) always right.