This morning my thoughts turned to wondering when I stopped crying. I have not shed a tear for years it seems. What does this mean? I have always believed and my experience shows me that the depth of my sadness is what allows me to know its opposite, joy. Have I ceased feeling anything at all?
As a psychotherapist, I would have diagnosed myself as having a histrionic personality. I was certainly told many times in my childhood that I should become an actress for all of my untiring demonstrations of unbridled emotion. As I look back over these many years, I know I have felt the depth of emotional pain that could only be seen as complete madness. Raging anger has haunted me too, with nothing inside to control its devastation.
And tears, tears of joy and gratitude, happiness at the smallest things have given me reasons to live. Laughter–loud, boisterous, from the pure magic of comradeship, sprang from me easily.
And then there is love. I think I know what love feels like. I think it is a fundamental part of my being. I feel love when I look into a friend’s eyes and I see love coming back at me but I wonder why. Why do these people love me? What do they see? But, I am still the actress, minus the demonstrative displays of emotion, am I not? Now it seems only glimpses to that joy, tell me I am still alive.
This is beginning to sound quite morose, I know. I am merely pondering my own evolution, seeking to understand myself in a world I alone have designed for my comfort as I suppose most humans do.
I have been reading Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte, which is likely prompting my musings this morning. I was drawn to reread the book by an old memory of having found myself in those pages but recalling not why. Now I know. It is Catherine Earnshaw. Those so many years ago, Emily Bronte breathed life into her character of Catherine and she could have been writing about me.
Aha! Perhaps this very writing has shown me that my feelings are still alive. My melodramatic personality has just shown itself on this page! Writing things through has a magical effect on the writer don’t you think? Pouring the words out onto the page, has the effect of revealing a knowledge not otherwise known.
Thank you for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts.