Letters Between Sundays

My feelings are like quicksand. Once I feel, I start to sink fast — pulled under to the point of suffocation.

The part I hate most about being a girl is emotions. Talking about them. Feeling them. Having to understand other people’s emotions. I’m not the type of girl who sits around and talks about how hurt I am. To me, that feels weak and immature. I was taught to shove everything down and forget about it.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” As a fat girl in middle school, those words hurt so much they made me consider suicide. And the thing is, no one cared. I talked to the principal, the school counselor, and teachers, but the bullying kept happening. So, I learned to build thick skin. At home, fights would break out, words would be thrown, feelings would get hurt — but no one talked about it. You just had to deal with it and move on.

My whole life, my feelings weren’t validated. To be even more specific, they weren’t validated by females. Ironically, they were the ones who did most of the abusing and bullying.

In high school, my friendships with girls were toxic, manipulative, and draining. But I had boyfriends and guy friends who actually saw me. Yes, some of them were addicts or just chasing something from me, but at least they saw me. They liked me for who I was. They didn’t try to change me. They validated my feelings.

Back then, I coped by popping pills, drinking, smoking, self-harming, and putting myself in danger 24/7. I felt so much that when everything came out, I thought I was losing my mind. There’s something about a high — adrenaline or marijuana — that can make everything feel “okay.” It lifted the weight off my shoulders, even if just for a moment.

Sometimes, as a disciple of the Lord, I still struggle not to go back to that, because it made me feel like I didn’t have to feel. But when the high ended, the chaos always returned.

I don’t do those things anymore. Now, I face my pain and emotions sober, with God by my side. I’d rather have that than the emptiness I used to chase. Coming into the church and learning emotional skills has helped me heal. I’m still learning and growing, and I’m okay with that. I have a hard time talking about what hurts me, but I try not to get discouraged.

It’s reasons like today that make me avoid getting emotionally attached to people. I start to sink again, into quicksand. I remember all the times I got shot down, nitpicked, ignored. The moments no one noticed my hurt, when no one opened up besides me, when I was the only one trying. Insecurity creeps in, whispering that it’d be easier to fall back into old habits. Why bother talking if my words just disappear into the air?

Am I weird? Am I too much? Being called “weird” isn’t an insult. It means I’m different. How can I apologize for being a bright blue crayon in a box of grey crayons? Why can’t “weird” be something beautiful?

I’m loud, extroverted, funny, sarcastic, energetic, and full of creative ideas. Do I really need to dull myself down? I love too hard. I’m always either too much or not enough. I’m told to be more responsible, but also to watch how my personality affects others.

Quicksand.

Who am I supposed to be, if being myself isn’t an option?

So, I’ll keep my mouth shut and sit in the quicksand. Quiet and alone. The only bright blue crayon.