Feelings Intense

I recently downloaded Sia Furler’s discography. And listening to Colour the Small One and Some People Have Real Problems brings back so many memories from before. Feelings of fear, hurt, pain and pure anguish. Feeling like screaming, crying, wailing, drinking, hurting yourself just so you could feel alive. Because you knew that if you stopped, you would probably never feel again.

Why do negative feelings go so deep? While positive feelings just float like clouds in the air, destined never to rise any further but simply hang in the atmosphere, waiting to come down again?

Feelings of happiness just seem to have this invisible limit. I’ve never felt like I could soar with joy before. I’ve never felt so happy that if life ended right then and there, I would’ve accepted it with no regrets. (okay, except when intoxicated but that doesn’t count).

I have, however, felt such intense hate, anger and absolute misery that it was all I could do not to end it right there and then. Such intensity of feelings on the opposite end of the spectrum had ever only been matched when I fell in love, but only barely. And even then, the memories of the hurt run so much more deeply that those of love and joy.

And I can’t help thinking, is there something wrong with me? That when I look back on my life, all I can think of is the pain I went through, from childhood until today. I find it hard to recall high points of my childhood, or the joys of my teenage life. All I can remember are the tears, the backlash, the suppressed anger, the confusion. There has to be something wrong with me.

I remember on NYE of 2000. The world was supposed to end that year, but it didn’t. And I found myself sitting at the edge of my bed, 2 days after turning 10, trying to imagine what 2001 would be like. And little 10-year-old me couldn’t think of anything. I couldn’t imagine myself being a year older, doing what 11 year olds did; I couldn’t imagine being 11. On the verge of sleep while my parents’ friends continued partying on the other side of the bedroom door, I lay down and my last thought of 2000 was: “Maybe there isn’t going to a 2001.” I remember smiling at the thought and drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

The next day I woke up, and if the me then knew the swear words I knew now, there would’ve been some colourful words spewed out right there and then.

I doubt God is a novellist who really bothers with foreshadowing and other literature devices when writing out our lives, but I sometimes wonder if that was a forewarning to the shit that I would go through years later. And if that fleeting dark thought of a 10-year-old was an accurate prediction to my future, imagine the storm my current macabre thoughts could bring.

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