When I decide that I want something, I end up needing it. My passion gets the best of me. A single, stray thought quickly flourishes into an obsessive idea that won’t leave my mind. With me, it’s all or nothing. I either feel too much or nothing at all — there is no in between.
If I say the wrong thing, no matter how insignificant it is, I’ll dwell on it for hours after the other person has walked away. And if I don’t say anything at all, if I keep quiet even though I had something to contribute to the conversation, then I’ll chastise myself for being so shy. I can’t win. I speak, I regret it. I shut up, I regret it.
When I crush on someone, I go full-force. I spend my nights reminiscing on the moments we’ve shared and spend my mornings planning on how to get them more involved in my life. On how to turn them from a friend to a boyfriend. I don’t want to wait. I don’t want the relationship to develop gradually. I want it to happen now now now.
If I get mad at someone, I toss out every curse word I can think of (as long as they’re out of hearing range). I’ll cry and whine and complain for a half-hour and then instantly get over it. Or, sometimes, the bitterness will linger. It will refuse to abandon me. And it will rise up, like bile, whenever I see the face of the person that hurt me. It won’t be a controllable rage. It will be all-consuming and unreasonable. It will be downright stupid.
I call myself unemotional, pretend to be strong, but the right song can spark a series of tears. And when I’m really, truly upset, over a boy or an argument or a death, it feels like the world is trying to squeeze me out of it. Like I don’t belong there. Like there’s no point in trying to swerve past all the barriers that the universe has plopped down.
That’s why, when I start drinking, I don’t stop. I don’t take a sip, because I enjoy the taste or because I want to loosen up. I do it, because I want to feel something. Something different than I usually do. Something happier, lighter, better.
I criticize myself for being overly emotional. For caring too much. I wonder if my life would be different if I could last a day without freaking out over something small, without looking into every little thing, without wishing I wasn’t ruled by my emotions.
But then there are days when I feel numb, vacant, empty. When I can’t get myself to laugh, to cry, to blush, to feel. And on those days, when I can’t summon up the will to care, I wonder which is best: To feel nothing at all or to feel it all?