I’ve been sharing my feelings, thoughts, and emotions online, sometimes healthily, sometimes unhealthily, since the Wild West days of blogging- when everything was original, nothing was sponsored, and any accompanying photos were taken with point-and-shoot digital cameras. My feelings about the world, my life, and my experiences find their way out of my heart through various channels, but writing has always been one of my favorite outlets. Hand-writing in a journal sufficed as an adolescent, but there’s always been something so much more satisfying about typing into the abyss of a screen and then hitting “Post” for all the world to potentially see, whether it be a tumblr post, a tweet (and then delete), or a cryptic and sardonic instagram caption. All that to say, I’ve grown up sharing my feelings on the internet, and I’m ready to do it in a more grown-up way. This is my new Medium.
Ok, back to feelings. I was taking crying selfies before it was cool. Definitely not at a high or healthy point in my life, but it was my unhealthy attempt to cope with my feelings by digitizing my emotions. My documentation of despair is just the tip of the iceberg; I could take you on a walking tour of Places Jasmine Has Cried in Manhattan. New York City was made for public tears, and I miss it for that quality alone. (and for all of my precious, beautiful friends who made me feel less #alone)
Throughout adulthood I’ve often wondered- at what point did crying in public become socially unacceptable? When we all stopped having toddler temper tantrums, where did all that emotion go? Maybe most people become *proper* adults and grow out of it all, but in various scenarios, when nothing else seems an appropriate response to the drama ensuing, I question- “How do I throw a tantrum as an adult!?” Instead I’m standing on a subway platform at 7:35pm wearing obscenely large sunglasses and attempting to hide my socially unacceptable emotions until I’m safe at home in Brooklyn. There, only behind a closed door, can my feelings flag fly free. ( just kidding, I cried on the A train all the time during a particular season, mostly between High Street and Fulton Street whilst propelling through the East River, a sort of emotional baptism, if you will.)
I’ve been told I “feel more than other people.” I’ve been told I feel “too much.” How did a shy, quiet girl grow into a young woman who is too much sometimes? I don’t know. One of the biggest lies I face is that I’m not enough, but when I finally manage to push past that self-criticism and step out into this world, full of dreams, opinions, ambition, and feeling, I’m too much. I ricochet between the two lies until it’s all too much. I’m not enough. I’m too much. I’m nothing. Hiding behind my sunglasses, I wave my white flag in surrender, and retreat back to the place where I can express and process it all.
