Feelings Became Words
Musings at 2am.
It’s 2am, and I am compelled to write. Very unsettling feeling. Very spontaneous. Or maybe not. Because for a very long time, I’ve had the urge to write — again. Made myself promises to commit to writing a lot more often. But time and time again, I have chosen writing projects that benefit me directly — money or social currency, over that which liberates me. My thoughts. My emotions. My sanity.
So here am I, submitting to the will of self.
I’ve been feeling a lot of things lately. Things that I wish I could share in plain words. Over the years, I have mastered (or so I thought) the art of shelving my emotions. Not with the intent of portraying ‘hard guy’ characteristics, but a conscious self-preservation effort. And shielding my loved ones from my pain. That’s not to say that I never felt pain or anguish. Heck, I’ve been depressed twice! But I always do my crying in the rain.
In shelving my emotions, I failed to organize them. Picture your kitchen shelf (closable ones), where you store your plates and other stuff in there. Good. Now hear me, there’s a mental shelf, where I ‘store’ emotions. In one part I am organized, in another, it’s just a clutter. Mainly due to the fact that organizing them will mean processing them. And processing them will mean dealing with them. So, I throw them in the shelf and close it shut. A continued attitude which leaves the shelf not only disorganized but clogged up. All too soon, they come tumbling down when I decide, ‘let me open this memory shelf and recount an experience’.
So clearly, this strategy failed. I failed, but my reward was the experience it came with. This shelving of emotions has never brought healing. Nonetheless, I learnt from it and took the painful path of feeling things.
You see, feeling hurts. But it also heals.
About 10 months ago, my mom had a major surgery. Before the surgery, she used to complain a lot about some abdominal pains. We ignored it for some time until it became unbearable. So, she had a diagnosis and it turned out she will need surgery. She got the surgery done. An excruciating experience, at least that is what I am made to believe. A few months after the surgery, she began experiencing some complications. We went to see her doctor, and after a series of medication, she got back on her feet. In her own words, “I am able to drive my own banku now” — with a big grin on her face. The surgery hurt. The aftermath of it hurt. But it brought her healing. I liken that to feeling things — be it pain, disgust, sadness, unrequited love, misery, loneliness, worry, doubt. All the big feels, and if you like small feels. Because though it hurts, the process brings healing.
feeling hurts. but it also heals.
Feeling overwhelmed might be an understated description of how I’ve been feeling lately. However, I have learnt a great deal to keep myself together amidst everything. You see how disorganized a can of baked beans looks when you open it up after a rigorous shake? Yes. But you also realize on the outside, you don’t see any evidence of a shakedown — of course, unless it’s hit to show physical damage. That is me. On the outside, I look great. But on the inside, I am just a disorganized soul looking for rest.
You may read this and whisper, “God, this guy is broken”. Yes, I am broken. And I am not ashamed of it. I come from a broken home. Living with a heart heavy from broken dreams. Unlike my therapist who asserts that broken people are usually ashamed of their brokenness, I am not. The dark days where insecurities of inferiority crept up in my thoughts are far gone. All that we are, are meant to be tried. We are meant to break. Our hearts. Our thoughts. Our entire being.
Be that as it may, my brokenness isn’t the end of my being. It may be a definition of my state, but not a nullification of my being. There is always a becoming in every brokenness.
there is always a becoming in every brokenness.
As I end this, permit me to suggest to you, borrowing the title of August Wilson’s Essays on Drama; ‘May All Your Fences Have Gates’.
PS: Life is worth living.
