To Feel Deeply

If there is one thing I have learned about myself in my twenty years of existence it’s that I feel too deeply.

I guess it seems odd to think that someone could feel too deeply, but I do. Whatever I feel, I really feel. The moment an emotion is triggered, good or bad, it courses through my veins like blood pumping to keep my heart beating. It’s as if only the most extreme emotions are what keep me alive. Without them my veins would run dry, choke on themselves, crippled and collapsed. The only problem is, these emotions aren’t blood necessary for life, they are poison, slowly eating away at me from the inside out, attacking from within, relentless in their pursuit. And the harder I try to stop the poison from entering the most intricate crevices of this body I inhabit I can’t stop them. I fight and I plead with them to go away, but that only seems to encourage them. They multiply and divide and multiply again, surging through me and overtaking me.

Inwardly I’m cracked outwardly I’m warped. My relationships become strained, from the inside out annoyance, anger, rage, and the most destructive of them all, jealousy, seep through my skin, leaking out of my pores, pooling at my feet, drowning me for all to see. I watch as these feelings slowly chisel away at the relationships I’ve just spent months sculpting from the ground up. Though they can’t feel the substance crack, I can see it, and I can feel it. I can do nothing but sit and watch the pieces I’ve fought to piece together slowly loosen their grip, crumbling to the floor, hitting in slow motion, erupting. I scream as I try to catch the falling pieces but they only crumble in my hand, turn to dust, and slide through the cracks in my fingers.

After enough futile attempts at holding onto what will soon be gone, I begin to look inward, to the source. I find it, deep inside my heart, and I begin to feel something altogether new. Though this new feeling is laced with hatred, the subject is not outside of me; rather the hatred-like feeling is turned inward, onto myself. I begin to resent the very source of all the outward deterioration. With all the force I’ve ever felt, I understand that I am the root of all of my trouble, and without much hesitancy, I begin to hate myself, my insides, the part of me that is causing these feelings to rush to every corner of who I am.

And though I’ve come to realize these things, I find myself in an inescapable fissure, hanging on by only a thin strand of hope and hate. I try to kick and I try to fight but these actions only put more tension on the already hyperextended strands holding me in place. The more I fight the hate the more I find myself sinking lower and lower into unexplainable depths.

And in these twenty years of existence I’ve come to realize that this battle within me is one I cannot win. 

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Home

And I think the reason why I love to be home is because it's the only place I'm happy anymore. It's the only place I feel true, effortless joy. And I think the reason I love to be home is because you aren't all over it, unlike this damn place. At home, there isn't a trace of you and what we used to be, and God there is nothing I love more than something completely removed from you and whatever we used to be.

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C O M I N G | H O M E

“It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what’s changed is you.” F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

It truly is a funny thing, coming home. 

For so many days, weeks, months, you sleep in a bed you only call your own, and you shower with shoes on, and the food isn’t right, and the walls are painted white. And one day you wake up in that bed you call your own, and you get in that car you’ve had in the family for years, and you turn up the radio real loud, and you hit that pedal to the ground, and the miles start to roll on under those tires you should probably get changed. And nearly three hours click by on that clock that isn’t set just right and the view outside your window changes from billboards to hometowns and then you’re turning right onto your street and right into your driveway and you’re home.

And as if by magic, your dogs who’d just been sleeping, appear barking at the door just as your hand turns the knob. And your parents rush over to see you and they hug you and they kiss you. You toss your bag down on that bench that’s been by the window since you were in middle school, the one love-marked with scratches from those dogs who are now 7, 6, and 5. And you go into the kitchen, and you’re favorite dinner is cooking on the stove, and the table is set for three instead of two or no one at all. And after you’ve said your hellos, you go to your room and you put your stuff away.

When you opened your bedroom door your room looks so simple. The bed is made, the carpet is still, and there’s some unopened mail on your desk. The lights are off and the blinds are shut, and the air is cold since the vents have been shut. You put your stuff away in the drawers that have housed those same clothes since high school and you mindlessly put things in their own little homes, not having to consider how best to arrange things.

And then one day you wake up and your bags are packed and you’re bringing your stuff out to your car. And your dogs are still, sitting up on that bench, six eyes watching your every move. And your dad is working outside, and your mom is in the house. And you fill your car with your bags of stuff and you shut the door. So you go inside and you say your goodbyes, first to the dogs, then to your dad, and then to your mom. And when she hugs you that time, she cries, and she rubs your back and tells you she loves you, and to have a safe trip, and to call when you get there. So you take down those mental notes and you stifle your tears behind closed eyelids and you let that lump in your throat go down real slow so that you don’t crack. And you walk to your car and you don’t look back. Then as you turn the key in the ignition, and shift the car into reverse, as your tires begin to roll and you look out through your side window at your house you realize that bed you only call your own, and those shower shoes you hate to wear, and that food that tastes like stale bread, and those white walls you tried to mask with snapshots of the past, all those things, you realize, have changed you. They’ve made you new and now home feels nostalgic and your bedroom is like high school, and your family becomes your friends.

It really is a funny thing, going home. 

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