what does it mean to have feelings? emotional responses? is it a means to an end, a simple communication method, or should they be entirely insular, not dependent on external actors? i've struggled with these questions my entire life, but especially since i became severely depressed when i was 14 years old. is my life a performance, and me the greatest actor to ever live? what does this burning do outside the vision of others?
i am often in pain. because of myself. because of others. of regret. of disgust. of anger. it leads to the same place. a burning that won't subside. but what is the purpose of the fire? is it so you might bear witness and realise the error of your ways? are feelings simply a tool to prescribe what you would rather someone do, to communicate a preferred plan of action? i've been accused of manipulation, plenty times by plenty of people, including my own parents. that i'm putting on a façade to make someone do what i want. i've never really understood why people take this angle. i think all of us would rather someone take the act which puts us in the least amount of pain. but i suppose respecting the wishes of other souls is equally as important.
but who gets priority? who is in the most pain, and who must grin and bear it? usually, it's me. i hold it in. i moderate my emotional responses. insulate them. keep them hidden so no one might accuse me of 'manipulation' again. "you just want to make me feel bad!" - is that so evil? what is the point of the performance if not to give someone insight into the source of your suffering, the eye of the storm, the consequences of their actions. this performance rarely sways people. i don't view expressing my feelings as a way to control people, nor do i ever (really, ever) expect it to sway them. i yearn to be witnessed. to be known. to be seen, fully.
when i was walking to school once (imagine a very suicidal 14 year old bikube, dear reader) i had a panic attack, because i felt as if all inside of me, and all i externalised, was fake. simply a means to an end. a want for control. because that's what my family had told me every time i expressed upset my entire life. that i just wanted something. that i was just a crybaby. so i put on a mask. i played the fool, my role, as well as i could. i held it in. i acted like i didn't care. it tore me up inside.
today, i get the same accusations. that all i want to do is make people miserable. that i should just leave them alone. my emotions are yet again a crime. something to be hidden. something no one deserves to see. something malicious, something 'horrible' and 'disgusting'. that people want to heal. from my pain. from a glimpse they saw of it. is being auxiliary to my suffering for even a fraction of a second really enough to warrant that reaction? i hold so much more than the people who despise me know. there are oceans and forests and stars and storms in here. one i feel i may never feel safe to show another living soul again.
so, i choose to play the fool. to do what's expected of me. to keep face. that's the good thing, the moral thing, right? right?