25 years of wretched sobbing
As I've matured into a woman in her mid-twenties, I have noticed that I have spent an enormous amount of time pondering. In my sessions of pondering, I have analyzed my nature as an overthinking, overly emotional being.
The overthinking part is an easy pill to swallow. Most of it stems from my abundantly anxious nature. Even when my gut is telling me something—and it frequently is never wrong—there is still a little voice in the back of my head that sows a tiny seed of doubt that, in an instance, blooms into a baobab-sized tree of worry and second-guessing. It does take a bit of pep talk and reminding myself that I am indeed often right about my gut feelings to steer myself away from making any anxiety-induced decisions.
I've recently come to terms with the fact that I am an overly emotional being and there is nothing inherently wrong with it. I tend to feel things deeply and intensely, often leading to long bouts of melancholy or a cacophony of other emotions that I sometimes struggle to manage without pulling my signature move—disassociation. As you might imagine, all this heavy feeling of things has maybe led me to having exaggerated reactions to the littlest of things, that any other "normal" person would usually shrug at and keep it pushing.
As I sat and pondered, I realized that I could resume my life in a single phrase: 25 years of wretched sobbing. In many ways, tears were a catalyst for the release of emotions I couldn't yet understand—anger being at the forefront of them all. I remember being an angry child. I'm not quite sure who or what I was angry at but the emotion was there, manifesting in ways I could not yet understand.
Today, I am the patron saint of female rage—a title I've given to myself as I come to terms with my anger at the world. For the longest time, all of this anger was hidden behind layers of depression, anxiety, and the overwhelming stresses of life. But as I age and learn to manage these feelings and peel them back, the void they leave is almost immediately filled with frustration and anger—frustration at a world that feels hostile, unfair, and unkind to someone like me. This anger isn't aimless, though. It's anger born of awareness—of being a black, college-educated woman navigating a world that so often tries to diminish or invalidate me. It's anger rooted in systemic injustices, personal betrayals, and a lifetime of emotional and psychological wounds. And as I've come to understand it, I realize it isn't just anger—it's also fuel.
My family life has been all but rosy, and unfortunately for me, I saw my parents' divorce coming from an early age. I just wasn't prepared for how turbulent it would be. My love and sex life have been traumatizing, to put it mildly—from assault to heartbreak I've been through it all. And this does cause me great frustration—remember, I feel everything deeply—because I feel an immense amount of love that is pent up in my heart and has nowhere to go. Right now, that is the least of my worries, as I have a degree that I need to get before I can let the failures of my love life consume me entirely.
25 years of wretched sobbing! Sobbing that has made me into the woman I am today, because every time I have cried, I have learned a lesson—about myself, about people, about the world. Initially, when I came about my condition as a serial feeler, I was slightly disgusted. I wanted to be more detached, more nonchalant, colder, and most importantly, more selfish, as my nature is the opposite of these things. However, after another harsh life lesson and another pondering session, I've come to realize that although I am the opposite—and sometimes it comes to my detriment—these are also my greatest strengths. So far, carrying myself with love, kindness, empathy, patience, etc., has allowed me to look back at all the situations I've been faced with in these 25 years of wretched suffering without much regret. I have always given my all, my best—whenever my mental state allowed for it—and I always tried to exhaust every option before letting go of anything (or anyone) that was not of any service to me.
The phrase "25 years of wretched sobbing" is hilarious to me. Growing up I would never describe myself as overly emotional or as a crybaby for that matter, when in reality I've been a softie since day one—I just never let people see my infinite moments of vulnerability as I often chose to showcase them in my room behind locked doors. There, I cried, I yelled, I punched at walls, and I dramatically slid down a wall to the floor while embracing myself. I'm not sure if this has always been my nature or if the extensive traumatic situations have just made me this way. I won't expand on the whys, but I will tell you that I am a retired people-pleaser, and I have abandonment and attachment issues—which I am working on in therapy—but these things, overlapping with my several mental ailments, surely make a recipe for a life of wretched sobbing.
This past year, I have been working on being stern with my boundaries and being intentional about who I decide to let into my life—what purpose do they serve, what are they bringing to my life, and how are they helping me become a better person? And only recently did I realize that going against my nature was doing me more harm than good. I was trying to give people the same energy, to stoop down to their level if they were dirty, but doing this felt wrong and would bring me great anguish. The solution, although clear, is not as easy to put into practice: I won't change who I am, but I have to find a way of being myself without letting people abuse me. A saying as old as time—I'm guessing, I don't know—don't mistake my kindness for weakness. However, this kindness often backfired—sometimes by my own doing, for not knowing when to stop putting people's needs above my own. Again, a work in progress.
Recently, this has been tested, and I had to draw the line when I felt like I had done everything possible to salvage a situation that was only bringing me immense pain, anxiety, and above all anger. Anger like I hadn't felt in a long time. Anger at myself for letting things get to that point, and anger at another man who had—once again—disappointed me. And it wasn't the fact that he had disappointed me that hurt—I always expect that from everyone—it was how. I felt so disrespected, so discarded when all I had done was show him love and compassion, tenfold what he deserved from me. It's easy to feel small when someone you care about discards your love so thoughtlessly. But as I wretchedly sobbed through the anger, I found clarity: my love, while abundant, is a gift—not something to be taken for granted or mishandled
25 years of wretched sobbing taught me this: there is no shame in being soft, in being vulnerable, in feeling profoundly. The world will try to bring you down, make you callous, and try to teach you that vulnerability is a weakness. I refuse to accept that, as these moments of incessant sobbing have shown me the beauty in feeling everything—the highs and the crushing lows. Once upon a time, I thought crying meant that I wasn't strong enough, but I've come to see it as evidence that I've been alive, that I've cared, that I've loved. And if my tears were the price I had to pay for these experiences, then so be it.
Nowadays, crying is therapeutic. It's part of my grieving process. It's part of my healing, my moving on, my lesson learned. And every time I sat on my bed and wretchedly sobbed, I became a better person, a stronger person, a more resilient being. Still, if resilience were a currency, I'd be disgustingly rich by now—enough to buy a private island to weep in peace while I work on my tan. But alas, here I am, instead left with a slightly damaged soul and an exceptionally good talent at holding my shit together in public until I get home.
25 years of wretched sobbing, that haven't been easy and haven't always been kind. All I truly have to show for it is a wary heart and the begrudging acceptance that life will probably keep giving me more reasons to cry—there's no rest for God's strongest warriors. Still, I am thankful. These years have shaped me into the overthinking, overly emotional, slightly unhinged—yet still very loving—woman I am today. And honestly? I think she's pretty great.
