Composure

When I was little, I cried a lot. My mom said I was sensitive. I remember the first time I realized that my parents would die one day. I cried. I knew that it was okay and that they weren't going to die any time soon, but I was suddenly aware that they would, in fact, die, most likely before I did. I don't remember how old I was.

When I got older, I learned to hide my tears. I had a very good friend who followed the John Wayne school of manliness. Men wore boots, got in fights, remained stoic, played football, felt nothing, did what was right in the most bastardly way possible. Passion was out of the question. This is probably the reason I am to this day resistant to sports and classic westerns.

In my house, composure was a sign of legitimacy. In any argument, the winner was the one who didn't lose control of their emotions. People who lost their cool were allowing their emotions to overcome their rationality, and the most rational person was the one who was in the right. Makes sense, doesn't it?

I'm sure there are many other factors that lead to my current state of being, but I've only just started therapy and revelations like this take time.

In any case, the result of all this is that I have a hard time allowing myself to express my emotions in their raw, simple forms. I have very carefully constructed a persona of a master translator. I tell stories. I use analogy. I like pretty words. I work hard to turn these overwhelming, illegitimate emotions into clear, acceptable forms of communication.

A little over a year ago, I wrote this blog post about Europa. I knew, even then, that my "composure" was a shell, and that my emotions underneath were raging, looking for some release. Here's the funny thing though, I am not the most composed person in the world. I don't stuff my emotions all the time. It's usually not that difficult to figure out how I'm feeling. If this is composed, then what does it look like raw?

When I was home, over Christmas, my father told me that he was happy that I was going through the program I was going through at school. He said he hoped I would figure out some of my mess. "You've always been good at talking about abstract things. But, you've also always been very difficult to talk to about practical things." I knew what he meant. I lose my composure sometimes.

I don't know where all this is heading. I don't really know what I'm trying to get across here. I don't know if any of this even makes sense. I want to be useful. I want to be helpful. I want to be healthy? I want to be able to experience emotions without compromising my ability to convey my thoughts. I want, more than anything, to be understood, but it's so hard. It's so very hard.