The emotional piece of me

I’m a walking emotional piece. If you’re like me and you’ve been repeatedly told that you’re too emotional, chances are you’d begin to hate either the word or yourself for being one.

I cry too much for my own good. My tears well up and flow like rampaging rivers the moment my heart is touched by nature, inspiring acts of selflessness, insightful conversations, meaningful songs, beautiful lines delivered by wise men in movies and books, and so much more. I just feel too much that I sometimes find myself wishing I don’t.

Who wants to be labeled as emotional in situations when you want to be perceived as capable? My experiences taught me being emotional is almost always never a good thing. I also believe it mostly had something to do with how I manage my emotions.

Being emotional for me is like a gunpowder keg I carry around on my backpack that leaves me vulnerable. It’s like walking around with something that with one wrong move would blow me up to pieces.

If there’s something I find ironic with this character imprint it’s the stony way I handle the worst crises. I’ve been through the most difficult situations imaginable without shedding a single tear. I can suffer physical blows from martial arts training, row even with my hands and fingers chafed with blisters, finish long distance runs even if my knees and feet are screaming with pain, running on empty to finish something just because quitting is not an option, and more unbelievably harsh conditions I can remember.

I cry for what’s often perceived to be the most mundane reasons. I feel too much for people who don’t even know I do. Maybe I care too much for my own good. Or maybe, being emotional is my salvation. It’s a constant reminder that there are things I care about for me to feel something. I sometimes think that my strength to unflinchingly endure the worst needs the emotional part of me to better understand the things I otherwise wouldn’t grasp.