‘Don’t forget — I’m also just a girl. Standing in front of a boy. Asking him to love her.’
Anna Scott, played by Julia Roberts from ‘Notting Hill’. View the full script here.
I was so angry that he didn’t get it. It’s not like me to actually speak of my emotions to the person that is causing it, and of course by this, I mean negative emotions. I wouldn’t so much hesitate if I would like to tell someone that their homemade chocolate cake with lovely, oozing ganache (sorry, been YouTube-ing Nigella) is fantastic. But that doesn’t mean I won’t yell at a stranger that is clearly treating me like rubbish or walking all over me; it’s just those nearest and dearest to me. I won’t tell them if I’m not happy with them. I clam up, and write it all down, before I open my mouth and scream for five minutes without noticing that I am. Which by the way, I don’t think would be a pretty sight. No, me screaming is not pretty at all, and I applaud those who manage that magnificent feat.
Apparently, by verbalising things = saying what we feel, we move brain activation from the amygdala to the ventrolateral prefrontal cortex. What does this neuropsychology mumbo-jumbo mean? It means you move it from the ‘feeling’ part of your brain to the ‘thinking’ part. And you feel it less. That’s why therapy works. That’s why people talk about things. The pressing feeling against your chest and the ache between your shoulder blades dissipates. Perhaps you no longer boil with anger (you might still seethe though), or the tears stop creeping down your cheeks without you noticing. Unwinding. I find it a good explanation for why people shouldn’t just stuff it all down their arteries and hope that they don’t burst. It’s an unspoken agreement between friends that they’re your sounding board and you’re theirs. So use them!
Okay, now it comes to me. Sometimes I talk about things, and they go away with a ‘good bloody riddance’ from me. Or maybe it’s too difficult because the very people I’d love to talk to about it are the same ones I should not open my mouth to when it comes to this particular topic. So I write them down. My thoughts. Long, steam-filled (not steamy)(okay, just not this time around) paragraphs that perhaps nobody really gets. Occasionally I twist things into fiction. Maybe I portray it symbolically. Or even attempt (horrendous) poetry. Everyone has their outlet. I don’t consider myself the yelling type. Neither am I the type to punch walls, throw things and hope they break into smithereens. I just… talk. Or write. Or both. Oh, I sulk too. I go into long hateful silences that might be even described as mournful.
But I’ll be slightly or heaps better after that, whether or not the problem is fixed. This is how I function. I love my blog cause it’s my method. Tried and tested. After I click ‘publish’, it’s like I send it away to some magical incinerator and it goes away, along with it some of the negative emotions that have been heavily weighing down on me. Nobody likes feeling broken, so they go about trying to fix things in their head. The gutsier of us will set about doing it. I’m vulnerable and proud of my own feelings; it’s not the best combination. But I have my pride too. I have my own feelings. If someone clearly states that they don’t want to see me ever again, then I won’t go beyond trying to change their mind once, rarely twice. I won’t grovel or beg, especially if I don’t find myself at fault. Why should I? I get hurt too, it’s not just them. Who isn’t human here?
It’s my fault though. I should have known better than to expect him to know me and my ways entirely, especially not when he hasn’t known me for long. All I wanted was an ‘it’s okay’, but when it went completely and utterly silent, I assumed the worst. I stormed off, because I’d rather not acknowledge the disbelief and hurt that wanted to draw itself across my face with a big bold black marker. I grew a shield a long time ago because I needed my heart to stay alive, and not break every single time I think I find love. It’s still there. Maybe he’s not any more pessimistic than I am. I’ve never particularly thought of myself as an optimist anyway; I believe that might just be a recent development. I still think he makes me want to believe in the best, because I’m all for the positives to light up the road for the both of us.
But this is how I deal. I sulk, I talk, I write, and depending on the situation, sometimes I’m filled with the deepest loathing. And attack chocolates. Make cookies. And sometimes I cry. I’m just a girl. Just another girl.
