An Expose on Emotion by a Social Introvert

I often wonder why I struggle to express my emotions, but now I more often wondering why I do not experience them. In some rare moments, I have thought I could be a psychopath. But I am dismissing that one on grounds that I just don’t think it’s true, because I do feel things. I grow sad and frustrated. I get slapped with excitement and joy. I can feel everything; it just usually takes me a little longer.

            I recently had a meeting with a professor where I left feeling clouded and foolish. He spent half an hour talking about complicated domestic and international adoption and surrogacy policies, but that wasn’t what left me in a haze. When he asked me if I any thoughts on all that he had said, I sheepishly replied “No thoughts”. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt I had disappointed him. He took thirty minutes to explain part of his life’s research, and the student in front of him whom he expected to respond with a question or make an intelligent statement instead said next to nothing. She sat in her chair listening to fascinating details, contemplating how her research would have a role in everything. So when he prompted for her thoughts, she had so many that it appeared they didn’t exist. It’s like looking into a full closet and thinking “I have nothing to wear”. The truth is that there are plenty of options and combinations, but none of them come to mind.

            At the end of our meeting, he said I was unlike most of his students, as they were much more talkative and outgoing in person but that I was quieter one on one and asked if I was always shy. I said that is just depended and he told me that he hoped that I would eventually feel more comfortable talking to him. I wanted to assure him and say that I do feel comfortable, I just take some warming up to. As I drove off campus, I felt that I had been rude in my lack of response.

Since that meeting, I have realized that I do not experience emotions like humans are supposedly wired to. It’s become a running joke with my friends that I “don’t do” emotions and crying. It makes me uncomfortable to be in the presence of vulnerability. We are supposed to be strong and sensible. Emotions and feelings cloud our judgement and aren’t logical. At least that’s what I’ve thought. Science says otherwise, and that’s exactly how I like to approach emotion. I categorize it into something I can understand and discuss with ease. But that doesn’t satisfy me anymore. I can’t discuss my aspirations in terms of x and y or acid and base. I can’t quantify my fears by density, mass, or volume.

Because the truth is, I feel everything, and I feel it strongly. When I love something, I love it whole-heartedly. When I am apathetic, I am colder than the arctic. But in casual conversation, I can express basic emotions: interest, wonder, gladness. Notice those are all relatively low-key emotions. The more serious ones, – excitement, fear, love, hate – those require more thought, which is how I process them.

I take a great deal of time in understanding my emotions and deciding how I really feel. The first time I tell a man I love him will be very important, because it will have taken a great deal of thought and consideration. Emotions are feelings but we express them in words, and words hold a great deal of meaning to me. I will not say I love you if I don’t mean it. I don’t throw words around casually just because I think I feel that way. I vividly remember telling my mother that I wanted to tell her I hated her but I couldn’t because it wasn’t true.

A few days after meeting my professor, I emailed him explaining some of this. I told him that I had difficulty in talking about my thoughts if I hadn’t had time to think through them, which I soon realized held true for my feelings.

So if we’re having a conversation and you begin to cry or ask me what I think about the most recent crime against humanity, I may not respond well or at all. But please don’t think that I don’t care. Be patient with me and my stumbling words as I fumble through my thoughts, speeding through a process that sometimes takes days or weeks. Feeling is part of human nature, and though it may seem like I missed that gene, I didn’t. It’s a social grace I’m still learning to navigate.

An Exercise in Listening

            I have a list: a list of things I want to write about. Sometimes they come to me in the shower, walking to class, or watching The Office. Sometimes they come to me when I’m sitting in class wondering if time actually slows down every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 9:15 until 10:20 (Emily understands).

I intended my next post to be on one of those topics, but instead, I’m sitting in a classroom, listening to good music, and thinking about how excited I am to go to the symphony tomorrow night.

            I recently had a conversation with a friend who wrote a paper on why symphonies should stay formal, and I was shocked there were people who thought differently. Just imaging people in jeans and an ACDC t-shirt listening to Tchaikovsky’s Fourth makes me cringe. Part of why I love the symphony is because I get to dress up, sit in a beautiful hall, and pretend the music being played in front of me is the only thing happening in the world for a few hours. It’s one of the places I can go by myself and just exist, drinking in every single moment.

There is no other place on earth like a symphony hall— the red seats contrasted with the gold and white walls and ceilings, paneled with cloth structures to bind the sound inside them. No room in the world can hold the same sanctity and universality. Beautiful churches hold a dark past; elaborate castles and manors contain hidden secrets of betrayal; forests are polluted with invisible poison. Every room, every corner of the earth has something to hide or something that taints it—except for a symphony hall.

The hall is filled with the warm sounds of the orchestra warming up; the beautiful yet dark story of Odette, Prince Siegfried, and the Odile battling light and dark; the joyous birth of James Barnes’s son. Symphony halls invite people to experience life in a way only music can do. It’s the one thing you don’t have to know how to do, because it’s a product of humanity. You don’t have to know how to read music, play an instrument, or talk about motifs or crescendos. All you have to do is listen and let the melodies and harmonies work within you.

Music doesn’t discriminate; it doesn’t belong to one group; it doesn’t hurt. Music is the purest branch of our humanity. Like anything else, it can be misused and disfigured, but its existence is good. It is mutable and fickle. It changes notes and rhythms faster than we take a breath. One single breath of a musician can create dozens of notes played over dozens of bars. Music is powerful not only in what it can do but what it is. It is complicated because it mirrors human nature—what we want, what we feel, what we know, what we say. It is complicated but easy to hear. It’s dualistic in nature and addicting in consumption. Music is all of these contradictory things and one room is able to contain and handle it.

Tell me that isn’t amazing. I won’t believe you even if you do.

The symphony is a place I can go to breathe, close my eyes, and feel the music soak into my soul and every part of me. It’s a place I travel to when I want to treat myself to something extravagant and exquisite and be uncontrollably happy and at peace. It’s somewhere I don’t take just anyone. It’s a part of me that is untouched and vulnerable. So until I feel otherwise, I will continue to spend time on my hair and makeup, choose the perfect dress, and a pair of insensible shoes. I will walk through the doors and breathe a sigh of relief when I sit down—because I’m home.

Isolations

Tonight, I got to experience life. I watched a movie with friends, spontaneously went to a party, and then climbed some buildings. Regardless of how tired or scared any of us were, or the fact that it is 30 degrees outside, we did it all. And it didn’t matter who suggested it or came up with the idea, because we did it together.

            Until I started that sentence, I didn’t know that’s the part that mattered to me. I was living in the moment, getting rust on my hands from the ladders, and taking pictures from rooftops. But now thinking about it, I realize the events that transpired wouldn’t have meant nearly as much if I had done them by myself or with people I didn’t care to be with.

            This is such a simple, obvious concept, but it’s one I forget sometimes, until I have time to reflect. And that’s what this is all about for me. I have an outlet to reflect on and look at what I’m feeling.

            I’ve spent a lot of time standing back and appreciating my surroundings while being surrounded. I try to close my eyes a second longer to cement the memory into my being— not just my brain. Out of all the experiences I have had the last nineteen and a half years, I remember just a few of them now, because I took the time to step back from the moment and commit to myself. I have just enough foresight to know I’ll want to remember it later, and so I take that one extra moment to imprint it onto myself.

            I can tell you the temperature, the swirling of lights, the texture, everything. I only have a few of them, though. Lots have started to fade and some blend together. It can be frustrating, but I’ve decided that when I need to know it, I will.

            Tonight I took the time to remember something else. I decided to remember the people: the adventurous climber who didn’t want to dance; the timid but exhilarated pharmacist; the scared but secretly bored planner; the veteran enthusiast; and the one who didn’t care about someone she should have.

            I decided to remember who we were in the moment. The stained glass around us made the memory beautiful, but the people made it worth absorbing. Nothing we do will ever be perfect. No moment will ever be captured accurately in words or pictures. So instead, I choose to isolate myself right in the middle of it. Everything stops for a moment and I’m completely engulfed by everything around me. I press the pause button, take in every aspect, and swallow it in my mind. I then press play and resume watching, dancing, and climbing and let my mind process and develop it, until it’s unfiltered, unadulterated, and undone.

Zoe Cruz: Girl Who Only Likes to Listen to Songs on Albums in Order

And so, 18 months later, as I have come fully clothed into college, I am picking this up again. I've had 18 months to decide what to write, the perfect title, and the ideal punctuation. But instead, I've been living, something I talked about in a previous post. And I've been living for myself— not in a sinful way,-however you choose to define that- but living with the purpose of discovering myself, my beliefs, and all the things which accompany being a human being.

But this wasn't something entirely obvious to me until I read a friend's blog where she reflected on herself and the definitions she has attached to herself, and how much she hated that. After reading it, I couldn't help but do the same. I am not one to care about definitions or labels; I care about more complex issues. But don’t we all? We like to think we’re Bob Vance, proponent of free speech, but we're all Bob Vance of Vance Refrigeration (subtle Office reference, my friends).

I'm Zoe Cruz: first 3 time drum major at my high school: lover of all things feline: avid symphony attendant: doubter: loather of labels. We're all something, and we all like to label it, even if it's being a non-labeler. But I like to think that at the end of every day, those aren't the things we contemplate before drifting off to sleep. Because I think about who the next president will be and what that will mean for me. I think about the semester I want to travel abroad in London. I like to think I think about things of importance, because if I don't, then I am no better than the labeler who thinks only of the words describing her. I like to think I ponder topics completely unrelated to me that will probably never affect me, because that's what considerate people do. They think of people other than themselves. But that's just another label.

We have to choose what fights we're going to pick with ourselves. Does it matter that today I spent more time thinking about how my earthy headband perfectly coordinated with my shirt than the fact that I have a mid-term next week? Does it matter that yesterday I thought about the kids I tutor and how to help them, but today I spent a large amount of time memorizing something for my sorority? I don't think it does, because I'm all of those things: the headband enthusiast; stressed student; middle school tutor; Chi Omega. I'm all of those things and a lot more, because I am a human functioning in society.

            So today I choose to lay down my sword and not fight the labels fight. Some days I am one thing, and some I am the complete opposite. After all, my father was correct in nick-naming me his "180 Daughter". So if you've been standing with your hand on your hilt, ready to pull out that dagger and plunge into the part of you prescribing to labels, put it down. We all feel the need to label ourselves. The only fight we have to take part in is the one where we decide what those labels mean to us. If you want to let it define you, let it. Let yourself proudly be Bob Vance of Vance Refrigeration. But if you don't want to be defined by something, then don't. Be who you want to be and love the things you want to love. I know I will.

"Naked As We Came"

As the dawn of adulthood begins to appear over my horizon, I've realised one thing: I have no idea what I'm doing. But oddly enough, this doesn't worry me. I've learned to take comfort in the fact that I'm not completely prepared for everything that is going to happen to me. I haven't become complacent and lazy; I've just stopped worrying about every last thing. For the things that aren't so important and don't need all of my attention, I deal with them as they come. Because it just feels better. I'm still prepared and ready for what I need to prepared and ready for, but there are some things in life that you just have to go through and deal with. Some things you simply can't prepare for. Like the way it feels knowing every day that passes is one day closer to not being around all of my friends all the time. As silly as it may seem, it matters. And there's nothing I can do about it, other than accept it and deal with it as it comes. When we say our farewells, a new book in our lives' series will begin to be written.
 People usually focus on the good in that, the fact that you get to start again and more or less move on with your life. But when you're in the middle of it, looking at the proverbial bright side doesn't seem so appealing. And quite frankly, I am tired of feeling like I have to look at the positive side of every situation. Because sometimes, life just sucks and I'm not happy with it. So in those moments, I'm not entirely focused on being positive and happy. In fact, I'm not focused on it at all. I believe that constantly finding the good in things makes you weak. You push away the feelings that make you sad and angry, and you lose touch with that part of yourself. So stop it. Cry. Get anger. Feel everything. Because in that moment you are human and you are you. Take a few moments to be selfish and feel everything you want to feel. Let pour over you like rain on a dry and barren desert. When the rain stops, the clouds will part and you will actually be able to see the sun instead of having to look for it.
To me, this is individualism. This is freedom. The ability to be yourself and feel everything all at once when everyone else tells you to toughen up and find the good side. I will not allow myself to feel what other people want me to feel. I will not apologize for how I feel, because that is synonymous with apologizing for who I am, and that's something no one should do. Take away the clichéd meaning and truly look at the phrase 'be yourself'. I have nothing more to say than be yourself.

It's Really All Just Cosmic Insignificance

I never thought I would miss the sight of FIFA projected onto a wall, but as summer comes to a close and my friends begin to pack their belongings I find myself clinging to all the memories this summer brought me. This has undoubtedly been the most memorable summer of my life thus far. I watched more soccer games in four weeks than I've seen in my entire life, baked and cooked more foods than I probably should have eaten, and laughed more than I thought was humanly possible. The people I've been so blessed to call my friends have given me so much joy and so much love that I don't know what life will be like without them. And I don't just mean when they go off to college or when I go off to college. That will be difficult, but at some point in my life I won't talk to most or maybe even any of them. I'll look back on this summer and other times in my life and remember them and be glad I met them, but I won't see them or talk to them anymore. In thirty years or so they'll be just a memory, and that is one of the oddest things for me to contemplate. It's difficult to just live in the now when the now is all about preparing for what comes next. This year is a year of transitions and endings and beginnings. This year is about starting the rest of my life, and to be quite honest I don't feel ready for that.

While Visions of Summertime Dance in Her Head...

It has been over a month since my last post and that is shameful. Shame on me.
Okay, shaming done. While I love that people read my blog and I am more than happy to share my life, I promised myself that I would write when and what I wanted to in order to make my posts genuine and heartfelt. If I wrote on days my heart wasn't into it, I wouldn't be writing for myself which is the reason I started this. Anyways, onto something more interesting.
This summer I have done some things. I travelled to the West Coast, went to my annual drum major camp, and done lots of hanging out and cheering with my friends. Never have I ever cared about futbol. And truly, I don't now. But I don't think it is possible to watch the World Cup and not get excited and completely into it. Sometimes you find yourself cheering for a country/team you have no logical reason to cheer for. Regardless of the games' final outcome, they are always the highlight of my week. This summer has been a lot about making the most out of everything and growing closer to the people I know I don't have much time with. So really, this summer has been about life.
College is the cloud that looms overhead of me the most. It's one of those clouds that you don't notice is there until the sun comes out from behind it. You like the sun, but the shade is nice too. Like many students and teenagers, I am intimidated by the prospect of moving out and surviving on my own, but the excitement that comes with living on my own and studying something I am truly excited and passionate about outweighs the fear of locking myself out of my dorm when my roommate isn't home. There is nothing I am looking forward to more than throwing that cap into the air and being able to think 'I'm done. I did it'. But first, I have to survive senior year. I am grateful for the friends and experiences high school has brought me, but I am glad this is my final year in this chapter of my life.
One of the things I am most excited about this year is my eighteenth birthday. However, at the same time this means I am an adult, no longer a child. At this point in my life there are a lot decisions I can and will have to make for myself. And the most intimidating aspect of becoming an adult is that one day I will not have my parents to turn to and say 'What now? What do I do?'. Of course there will be people to help me along the way, the same way I will help them, but there is something about the comfort of being able to ask the people who raised you and loved you for help rather than just a trusted friend or role model. Perhaps it is because of all the memories contained in a father's hug or the way we remember our mother's laugh makes us reminisce about our childhood, but there is something about our parents that gives us great comfort, no matter how estranged from them we are.