I have a lot of feelings. If you've been following this blog at all, I think I've made that fairly clear. Over the past few days, in conversations with some of my best friends, I have realized that perhaps I have been gaslighting myself a bit. See, many times, the phrases I use to express my feelings are "I'm sorry, but..." or "I know I shouldn't but..."
It's kinda like asking for a favor by starting "you can say no, but..." however, this particular phrasing hurts no one but myself. It's a passive way of undermining my own statement. "I'm sorry, but I love ice cream." is far less intense than "I love ice cream."
Why do I apologize for having perfectly normal, human emotions? If my statement is merely an honest and actual representation of how I am currently feeling, why do I feel this impulsive need to add a codasil?
On Saturday, I was lent a book called "Odd Poems" by Mary Wrenn Morris. Privately published by a young woman in Maine in the 1930s, our author begins her tome with an introduction worth listening to. She is honest, but unapologetic:
"The following poems have no place in the world of literary jewels cut with the sharp chisel of ultra modern smartness or polished with the infinite care of the classical. They are the direct expression of an emotional development and therefore are preserved unchanged from the original manuscript and in the order of their creation.
Should either the order or wording be changed they would lose completely whatever significance they have. They were written over a period of years and each poem was written under the stress of an immediate emotional experience.
The experiences have been lived and have taken their place in the growth of an individual. Because the individual is, let us hope, still growing there must be a lack of completeness about the poems as a group and it is my earnest hope that this incompleteness may continue to exist for many years to come.
The poems were written because they had to be written. If even one reader can find in them the pleasure of a shared experience then I should consider it well worth while, for the sake of that one individual, to brave whatever scorn or adverse criticism they might call forth."
Damnnnnn. Girl is brave! Her poems cover a range of subjects that are clearly uncomfortable for an audience in the 1930s. The first poem is to a lover, about how she misses him - the second, is a poem to their lovechild, despairing at the man who has abandoned them. From there, the poems range from lonely and sad, to empowered and vengeful. To caring so much about her child, to wishing she had never created that life. As time goes on, we reminisce about old lovers, revel in the joys of new. We feel her pain as she loses a child, is abandoned over and over by friends, family, men. She confesses to being frightened, to being lonely, to being weak, and yet it only serves for me to realize how strong she must have been.
She knows people may judge her feelings. They can easily use her feelings against her. Yet she is courageous - true, authentic, honest expression of self is the only thing necessary. The fears of judgement and ridicule must take a backseat to her one defining need.
When we apologize for what we are feeling, we are kicking ourselves in the heads. We try to free those seeds of honesty from our heart with one hand, and the other hand is grabbing them and shoving them back inside - "don't look! don't look! Nobody saw the real me, right? Right??".
Robert Frost said "Poetry is what gets lost in translation". I think it may be my new job to focus a little less on expressing my feelings in a manner comfortable to others, and instead turn my attention to expressing myself in a way necessary to my own survival. So the next time I haven't hurt anyone and begin to blurt out "I'm sorr-" feel free to give me a sharp smack on the hand. And certainly don't apologize for it.
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