Tears for Fears

Last week I was talking to a woman who was complaining about P.M.S. She always feels confused and out of control, bursting into tears for small reasons. I remember thinking at the time that I couldn't really comment on that, not being familiar with having unmotivated emotional rollercoasters.

I had forgotten that I do have motivated emotional rollercoasters.

Friends getting married, divorced, babies, deaths, illnesses, triumphs, longings, disappointments, losses, injustices, good news, attractions, loves, and worries. Every once and a while (like today), it crests and drives me under.

Good thing it's cathartic, and when it passes I feel, if not better, then at least sober. Suppressed emotions have a way of multiplying, and I know firsthand it's better to get things out of the way as they come. It becomes difficult, though, when there is no time for it; when circumstances or inclinations prevent a proper release.

It occurs to me that if I spend the majority of my time worrying about the problems of others, I must have a good life. I'm not so altrusitic that I'd be able to ignore myself if I had pressing difficulties.

*** *** ***

On a related thought, I've left a part of my soul in my past.

Now that I think about it, I'm sure that I've left little pieces here and there along the way. But I'm specifically speaking of a single moment, frozen in time. It was in a place of great contentment. As other memories fade, that one remains. I don't remember the day, what had happened, what happened after. It's not even really a memory. There isn't any action, save for snowflakes falling. It's more like a place, formed from the chemicals and electrical impulses in my brain.

Yet ever since that day, I can't shake the feeling that I left a part of myself there, in that moment. I don't say that to indicate that I feel incomplete now. It's simply that a part of my self was anchored there. I can summon that time, but it's not really a memory and not an emotion. It is a sad happiness, a serious joy. It is having empty hands and feeling them overflow. It is having hours pass without a single second elapsing. And all the while, snow is falling.

It is also, without a doubt, inviting ridicule to try to explain to anyone. As I reread it, it smacks of pretension of the worst kind. What's with all this poetic nonsense? I can only explain that this moment gives me comfort and helps me understand emotions in other people. Hopefully, that lends it gravity.