Sensitive. I have always been called sensitive. The word was spat at me like profanity. It hits hard, being called sensitive. Especially when you are because then you know that you’re odd, that you’re different and maybe people don’t dig you as tough as you’d hoped they did. My emotional depth has consistently been too much. For classmates who picked on me for it, friends who stopped coming around for fear of stirring it, and men who left me over the need to get away from it.
There is a tremendous issue in my home-life right now. I don’t have the power to fix it. I don’t have the power to write directly about it. I don’t have the power to do much. In honesty, it makes it difficult to perform tasks. When I am feeling low I become listless, I can’t read or write or even stalk social media brainlessly. I just exist. I know what you’re thinking, does she suffer from depression? It’s possible. It is. But it doesn’t change the wrong that has happened. It doesn’t stop me from being hurt and disappointed. It doesn’t take away my right to be sad.
The problem isn’t that I feel negatively. It is the volatility with which I handle these situations. It is the opening of the floodgates and the inability to swim against the current and get myself back to safety. Once something hits me hard enough the slippery slope becomes a steep incline and I am usually unable to pull myself back up without help. Without love.
This time? I am not seeking love. I am seeking strength and myself. Yet somehow, this has proven to be worse. I am closed off and distant. Nearly cynical. I am dry and aloof. But this struggle in my home? It isn’t something I want to drag anyone into. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
What’s funny is that for the first time, I am able to write. I write through it and it’s better than any drug has ever been. It isn’t always pretty, and is often incoherent. It’s poetry, after-all. But I wanted to keep consistent with my non fiction as well. So here I am before I get back into the depths of my poetic self.
Tomorrow, I will write about being a part-time vegan or recurring dreams or my great-grandmother and the lessons she gave me. But today, it is simply enough that I write.