Have you ever felt the most intense emotions imaginable, and then felt like you would probably never feel that intensely ever again? It makes me wonder if our feelings (especially our ability to love) are a finite resource, like if I kept feeling it, and sharing it, that one day I could run out.
I remember, about a decade ago, I was very into writing letters, hand written thoughts penned down on pretty stationary – to friends, to my then boyfriend, to my parents, to myself, you name it, and I’ve written letters on every subject possible. For a while that was my thing, I’d add a little hand written note with birthday gifts, or just write little notes to myself and leave it in different places to find. I absolutely adored it.
And then something changed, I had my first big heartbreak, the kind that I didn’t think I would survive, the kind that made me lose years trying to recover from, the kind that changed me forever. The only way I knew to survive it, was to numb myself to everything. Life became very mechanical, I reveled in my routine because it kept me busy. I made my time for myself so scarce that I didn’t have time to even think about anything beyond the superficial, my appetite was gone, but I ate so that the people around me wouldn’t be worried, I stated covering up my hollow eyes, and the tracks of my tears with pretty makeup, so no one would ask me if I was okay, which I knew would only have one result – me bursting into tears and coming unhinged and have my broken heart on display for all to see. I put on a happy face and went on with my day.
I did this more for my parents than for myself, the last few years of that relationship was difficult and volatile and sadly witnessed by my parents. I knew that I would not add to it by being a broken girl. They did not deserve it, and I would be damned before I put them through more pain.
So after the big heartbreak, I stopped allowing myself to dwell, to cry, or feel sorry for myself. I was barely 23 years old and completely disenchanted with life. I had numbed myself, this meant that I wasn’t really letting myself feel anything – good or bad.
I did this for years, before I was okay again. Different from who I was before, but okay. Stronger somehow.
One of the things that changed after this was I stopped writing letters. I didn’t know what to write anymore, I didn’t want to be the silly little sentimental girl anymore, that part of me, the naive romantic who loved the charms of hand made, hand-written messages, had gotten lost during the process of life. In the last few years, I haven’t written any letters, my newer friends don’t believe me when I reminisce about it, and some have even felt offended that they haven’t been recipients of them.
So as I sit here, wondering about why I am even thinking about them, I realize that I still love them, I love putting thoughts into words, and letting my feelings be translated onto paper, for another person to read.
Maybe One day, I will write letters again, I can only hope because that to me is an act of love.
To be able to express myself like that again, fearlessly and freely, would be wonderful! Which brings me back to my first thought, have you ever wondered if our feelings are finite, that it is possible to feel everything all at once and exhaust it.
I’m pretty sure that that isn’t likely, as long as there is hope, the possibilities seem endless, like there is this secret part of our being which allows us to surprise ourselves with how deeply we feel (good stuff and bad). That to me is Magic!
Until next time, thank you for reading!