On The Validation of Our Feelings, or You’re Your Own Warmest Color

For someone who thinks too much about various things (and often thinks too much about the same things), it would be plausible if you saw me as a person with considerable understanding of my own feelings, even with the state of quasi-permanent confusion in which they are. I am sorry to inform you that to this day I cannot accept that I have the right to feel the way I feel at certain times in my life — it’s that old story of blaming ourselves for anxiety or depression, because we have wounds that don’t bleed and that are easy targets for the more skeptical eye. It makes us want to believe that everything is okay, and that we are irresponsible for feeling this way or that way. I’m mistaken for thinking that I’m not the owner of my feelings, which causes me worse sensations, because I want to control them, but I can’t even accept them. My level of misanthropy doesn’t border on sociopathy, it is more like apathy — I don’t coexist well with the humanity we are creating, but I can’t stop loving it, and hating it, cursing it, and suffering for it.

Sometimes it is as if I could almost touch my feelings when I am reading a book, perhaps it’s one of the rare moments when these abstract things that corrode our minds and hearts take shape, like a variety of geometry that starts to make sense after centuries and centuries of being investigated — being variable, it is a form that will inevitably change over time, but will always have the same content and the same sentimental base. The more I read, the more forms of concrete feelings I know, and that is why reading brings me a much-needed security: no matter how deep is the spiral of feelings in which I get lost, I have a safe harbor in the middle of the pages. But I only talk about my love for books (once again) to illustrate that it is not impossible to recognize some control of the validity of our feelings. We just need to look at the situations we perceive them fitting in the palm of our hands, so that we can turn all this confusion into a modeling clay — I know it seems that the more we try to get out of this hurricane that is being human, the more fields we destroy in the way, and this is precisely the deal, to cling to this belief of overcoming ourselves. I was one of those who strongly denied our influence on ourselves, until I saw myself without options — and only those who are already without options know the depth of the well that makes us miss the hurricane.

Sometimes I like not having that control, because everything seems so much more natural when I let my feelings just flow… The problem is that this fluidity is not always calm, they aren’t always waters of a river spring, they can also be waters of a transposition that went wrong. And on top of this problem, we have one more unknown variable — all this is, as I said, natural, be it the nascent, or the transposition, all are details exclusively ours and that bring consequences only ours as well. This almost leads me to conclude that control could be an equally natural solution to the essence of our fluid and confused feelings, but in the end it is not quite like that — if I feel, it is because I am, and if I control myself, it’s because I can. Power and being are two distinct things: the first comes from the second, and the second doesn’t depend on the first. So I want to be this mess of feelings when it makes me feel good, but I want to be able to stop it when it gets out of my control. I want to be, naturally, an outpouring of affection, and I want to be my own compression. But the thermodynamics of human beings don’t have precise laws like those of physics. What should we do, then? Respect natural laws or intervene in their operation? I say we should do both: because we are, and because we can.

Sometimes I think that I am simply being honest with my own life when I allow myself to feel the way I do, because I’m being sincere with myself — I smile when I’m sad, I cry when I’m happy, I miss someone I shouldn’t be missing when I’m mad and I want the people who love me the most away from me when I need to be alone. Although some of these feelings at the wrong times indicate the problem of lacking emotional control, they also indicate the need to be who I am through the spontaneous exhortations of my reactions to life itself. I am afraid of the day when make-believe will take over my relationships — because sometimes I end up feigning some emotion, there is no way to escape this, there is no perfection, remember? It’s this fear that makes me feel sure that I prefer the heat of sentimental confusion than the coldness of a quasi dictatorial emotional control. Again, I ask you: do you remember that there is no certainty in this world as well?

When we experience our feelings separately from ourselves (whether through pretense, overcontrol, or non-acceptance), we are imprisoning ourselves into an illusion of our own existence. Perhaps that is why I advocate for the chance to confuse ourselves with our emotions, so that our beings are more palpable, more candid, more genuine. Be it the feeling that is born according to who we are, whether it is when we transform ourselves, it doesn’t matter: let body, soul and heart be our filters, leaving behind some impurities, denoting the reality of simply being.