On D.O.E.S.

Some of you may be familiar with the acronym "DOMS" - Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness. It happens when you have a good workout, then a few days later, you can't function for the pain.

Well, this evening, I experienced "DOES" - Delayed Onset Emotional Soreness.

I whipped out my laptop to do some writing on my novel, which I've been ignoring these past few months. To be honest, the last time I worked on it, I had a bit of a heartbreak happen. Actually, that's a little dramatic; less "heartbreak" and more "extreme romantic disappointment" And I haven't looked at my novel since.

This evening, I sat down to write, and found that I just couldn't. My head was heavy, my emotions were numb and my imagination had gone out to lunch. "This is strange," I thought. "I usually love to write and perk up at the opportunity to create prose" But the ghost of the past clung to my manuscript, and it seemed like I was looking at my story through a thick fog. I couldn't see my characters, nor my plot, nor any of the brilliant ideas I've had recently.

I sat stared dumbly at the screen for awhile before I closed the document and walked away. But I couldn't settle. My mind was waterlogged. I went out for a walk to clear my head, but walking alone in the dark just gave all the demons an opportunity to come out.

After months, I truly felt the disappointment from that ill-fated night when I last worked on my novel.

Not just that, though. More thoughts formed. Thoughts and questions.

"Why do I let men treat me this way?" I thought. When really, I realized, It's not the men, it's me. What I should really be asking is "Why do I let myself be affected by men?"

THEN I realized just how much I repress my feelings of hurt. Not just over men and love, but over other hurts in my life: my job, my social life, my relationships with certain people...

My usual reaction to hurt or disappointment is this: analyze it, whine a bit, brush it aside and laugh about it. I turn my pain and fear into a joke. I figure that nobody wants to hear about my pain and insecurity.

And yet, I want to hear other people's problems. I want my friends to come to be if they're sad. I want to help and soothe. I'm Leah: the strong shoulder and cool voice of reason. No matter how bad the situation, I'll do my best to listen, offer advice, or just be a hankie to cry into.

It seems taken this persona too much to heart: "I can't cry about this! There are people so much worse off than me and I need to be ready in case they needs me. I must, under all circumstances, retain the image of cool, collected and chipper. Optimism must not fail!" So my own emotions get pushed to one side in the form of a joke or passing remark, too unimportant to dwell on.

But despite all this: I remain as vulnerable as ever. I fall in love easily, I forgive at the drop of a hat, and I make friends for life. I leave myself wide open for hurt, but refuse to acknowledge it.

I know that it's good to be vulnerable, to allow yourself to feel. What would I be otherwise if not jaded and emotionless? And yet, I put up that analytic facade, to convince others that I'm not ruled by emotion, that I'm in control.

But really, I'm just denying that I feel, dammit! Where's the good in that?

So here I am, reeling from past hurt that I never properly dealt with, a hurt that is blocking my creativity and ability to write. And if anyone asks about it, I'll probably trivialize it and make some joke. Because I have to keep calm and carry on...