My emotions just won’t flow. It’s like I’m stuck inside my own walls. At one time they felt like protections but now they feel like cages. They used to be to keep people out but now it’s only to keep me in. When I feel helpless like I don’t have any control in my destiny I used to go into that place willingly but now my body reacts on its own, like a prison and I don’t like it.
I feel every emotion like everyone else but I just can’t seem to express it. My face is still as stone and my body stays tense. My chest constricts and my stomach knots into a wad of tension until whatever danger my body felt is gone and then my emotions come like a flood and I’m left to ride the wave of insecurity that goes along with feeling like others don’t have this problem.
I hear buzz words like trauma and childhood and it rings deep inside of me like a distant church bell from a neighboring town. I try to walk towards the sound and give myself over to the journey and just as my eyes begin to swell with emotion it dissipates into tension I’m left to swallow it like poison and pray like hell I’m strong enough for all this.
Prison is an odd place. I was told to come here and “figure out what’s wrong with me” and then fix it. That’s the idea anyway. I’ve done so much internal work I feel like my emotional rigidness, or iciness, is my last real battlefront and I am fighting like hell right now. The problem is the very people who are supposed to be helping me “figure it out” sometimes scare me to the point where I am afraid to talk to them at all.
Most times this place is manageable enough for me. Go to my cell, read a book, make a plan, get on my high horse, and ride off into the great unknown I have come to see as success. I laugh, am energetic, likable, and ready to continue making something of myself. But then I feel threatened by something and my body reacts in a way that I am left to “deal” with. Modern science says it’s a result of buzzwords like childhood and trauma like I said. Most days I don’t feel traumatized but then again most days I don’t think about my childhood. I kind of get through by telling myself that everyone had a childhood like mine and that I have no right to talk about mine.
Here I stand in my cell on the verge of unclogging involuntary emotional restraint and all I can think about is what comes on Monday and how many more of them do I have until this little ride called prison is over for me. When will I be free? When will I get to run the seaside and leave my set of footprints in the sand?
When will Mondays no longer haunt me on Saturday mornings?
Note to self: I’ve come so far, now is not the time to give up, and isn’t there a saying that points out its always darkest before the dawn? Perhaps this feels so heavy because it is “so heavy” and maybe, just maybe, I’m strong enough to handle it.