I have a gift when it comes to repressing feelings. I’m a self-proclaimed master with a superhuman ability to bury things that affect me deeply and just go on as if I never felt anything at all. I’ve done this too many times at too many important moments: devastating disappointments, major crushes of my youth, deaths of loved ones. Instead of dealing with my emotions and seeking comfort from those that love me, I’ve “stayed strong” and “moved on.”
But the reality is much different. Years later I’m still consumed by these feelings because they never left me. They’re still burning in my chest and coursing through my veins, and I know now that if I don’t learn to open up more I’ll probably explode from all the pent up emotion that’s built up over time.
I’ve always felt things deeply. I’m extremely sensitive with a soft spot for sentimental sadness. One of my first memories is sitting on a couch in my childhood living room, leafing through a family photo album. All of the photos were of my brother and I playing together outside and hugging for the camera. That summer we called ourselves “the loving brothers” and we meant it. It was a sweet and beautiful time. And yet there I was sobbing uncontrollably, so unbelievably sad that these times had passed and would never return. They were only memories now. My parents rushed in worried and tried to calm me down, but I cried and cried and cried, inconsolable. I spoke to my father about this recently and he remembered it vividly. He said he had no idea what to do at the time.
I’ve come to view the photo book moment as a pivotal moment in my life. It was an unrestrained expression of pure emotion. I was overcome with sadness and I didn’t know how to put it into words. I didn't know that I just wanted to be held and understood.
I’ve continued to feel overwhelming feelings my whole life, but I don’t remember showing my feelings again like that until I was in my twenties and going through some really hard times. That’s because at some point soon after I cried over the photo book, my repressive tendencies took over.
I became terrified of sharing my feelings, and this terror is still with me. My feelings are roiling inside and it feels like a big risk to let them out. But a risk of what? I don’t understand the fear or where it comes from, but I know it drives the repression. For some reason I’d come to feel that there was a lot riding on letting people know how was I feeling, and I also lost the confidence that I’d be loved no matter what.
This applied to the whole spectrum of feelings, big and small, happy and sad, subtle and unbearable. My great friend died in a car crash just before my senior year in high school. Looking back on it now, I was absolutely destroyed by losing Eric. In a way I still am, and I still have regular visions of his larger than life smile. But I never told any of my college friends about it for years. I showed up at college eleven months after the accident and kept it buried when everybody else was sharing and revealing and getting to know one another. I love my college friends dearly. We have special relationships that are built on real affection and trust. But I didn't feel comfortable talking about Eric’s death with them. It saddens me now to think of it. Not only did I not share my feelings, but I also didn't give my friends the opportunity to get to know an important part of who I was. I was heartbroken and I never gave anyone the opportunity to comfort me.
“Normal” situations can also be a huge challenge. Sitting around a table with friends I’m often overcome with guilt just thinking about sharing what I’m feeling. Maybe I’m tired. Or maybe I had a frustrating weekend because the kids were under-slept and we couldn't find a groove. I might be disappointed in our political leaders, or perhaps I’m excited about a new album coming out. In so many situations I don’t feel free to talk about any of it. Fear is holding me back and creating a barrier.
“How are you doing?” I’m asked.
“I’m doing just fine, thanks,” I respond.
The conversation turns to other things, and of course I didn’t give myself a chance to open up.
But I’m not doing fine. Not at all. Or maybe I’m partly fine but also feeling torn and tender on the inside. How I want to talk about it! But instead I bury my feelings. There’s no release. Oftentimes I’ll turn this around and look to support my friends. I want to hear about their pain. Maybe that will make them more willing to support me. But then again, I already told them I was fine. I closed a door that I desperately wanted to keep open. I made it seem like I didn't want to talk about myself when I really did. How passive aggressive that is! I hate when I do that, and yet I keep doing it over and over again.
I started seeing a therapist after Luna died. Two months after she passed everyone stopped asking how I was doing. They had all moved on and I couldn't blame them, but I was still a wreck. I thought it was bad in the weeks after she died but then the pain slowly blossomed into the deepest sadness I’d ever felt. My sessions with my therapist helped me see my patterns of repression, avoiding my feelings, putting on a happy face to cover up a wounded soul.
What am I so afraid of? I carry so much shame about who I am. But why? It makes no sense at all, especially because the people I’m most attracted to in this world are the free spirits. They are who they are and they’re not afraid to show it. What’s holding me back from being this way?
About a year ago, more than thirty five years after the photo book, I started crying in my living room. My father-in-law had died a couple weeks earlier and I loved him. Something broke within me and I cried and cried and cried. Julie rushed over and held me close, stroking my head tenderly. I picked my head up after what I thought had been a few minutes and settled down a little. There was something so cleansing and therapeutic about that cry. The world felt different, lighter, more loving. Then I noticed that Julie’s shirt was totally soaked with my tears. She told me I’d been crying for an hour. I couldn't believe it, although it also made perfect sense.
There’s such a beautiful sadness to life and I feel better the more I connect with it.
I hope I can un-master repression one cry at a time.