Too Many Feels

          Last semester was incredibly trying for me. It was supposed to be the semester I graduated-- had a miracle occurred and I had completed the "four year track"-- and my course load kind of reflected that. I enrolled in the capstone course the day before class started, and I didn't anticipate how grief-filled a class with three students and a professor could really be. Granted, the four of us were already acclimated to each other's idiosyncrasies, but every week on Monday afternoon we would meet in an office and have something between a group counselling session and a writing collective. Maybe those are actually the same thing? The thing I've noticed though, in those conversations, and in other classes where emotions feature prominently as a tool for being an engaged writer, is that feelings are not something we like to approach in a literal, exposed way.

          I think as writers we prefer to abstract these emotions and create fantastic metaphors (usually about deep things, like lakes, or the infinity of the universe, and other dumb shit like that) instead of just admitting that sometimes the world is full of suck. People are assholes, and nothing is fair. Sometimes those things make you want to cry. Why don't people just cry? 

          It seems that I might be working towards some kind of nervous breakdown this month, so I had a bit of a meltdown before one of my classes on Wednesday. I vaguely got myself pulled-together for the workshop that afternoon, and Bruce asked about the thing that I was panicking about. Immediately I blurted out not to ask about it. 

          I've been thinking about what is so horrible about another person acknowledging our emotions. Personally, if my day is going poorly I can hold it together (enough) until someone asks, "Are you okay?" That question manifests after another person recognizes a certain vulnerability in someone else-- it's not a question you ask someone who has a cheesy grin and is skipping down the sidewalk singing a song about how spectacular life is. Well, maybe it is, depending on the setting of the occurrence.
          What's interesting to me is that that interaction usually goes one of two ways: the first is that the (potentially) vulnerable person assures the questioner that everything is okay, which can be true--that everything is fine-- or that person is just building a higher wall around their interior self. It's hard to let people see us as sensitive, and fallible, and vulnerable. The second response is (especially when I'm involved) a giant melting pile of human covered in snot and tears. When people ask if I'm okay on a tough day it's like the last stick of dynamite lying at the foot of the wall guarding my emotions. It almost seems like that acknowledgment from the question-asker is an opportunity to invite them to go on this scary journey with me, ride the wave of crazy, if only momentarily. 

          Isn't writing supposed to be the same way? We ask our audience to be in a moment with us, to see what we're seeing, and to understand why that one instance of something matters at all. Isn't that another way of having empathy for the vulnerability of someone, by willing yourself to be in their shoes and ask the crappy questions? I think that because writing is an inherently personal experience, when others offer criticism and critique we become aware that the wall guarding our inner self is being broken down. Instead of using others' thoughts as a way to fortify what's already strong, we use their words as mortar to build the wall higher. We don't choose to embrace that vulnerability, because it's incredibly difficult. But, maybe we should, and more importantly, we should help other writers to feel like they're in a safe space and can do the same. 

EMBRACE YOUR FEELS! DAMN CONVENTION! 

P.S. I'm a total hypocrite for mocking use of metaphor. It's okay though, because I admit it.