Being kind to my crazy

I need to share my feelings for a moment. I have so many recently. I even have feelings about having feelings. It's like they all had a conference, put a surprise strategy together, snuck up on me and slapped me silly. Maybe it’s because it’s the last stretch of winter and I need some sunshine. Maybe it has something to do with transferring all my money into my conveyancer’s bank account. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl and I’m stupid sometimes. And, yes, I realise I just demolished 100 years of carefully constructed feminism with that comment. I’m suitably ashamed.
   

You know, it's really tough being a woman sometimes. We have feelings that can’t always be categorised. That can’t be neatly filed in one of our brain cabinets and closed after sign off. We get a hard time about this. But do you really think we want to have so many feelings? Do you really think we want to hang onto them rather than file them away and forget about them? I know it’s inconvenient and annoying that we can reference the seven ridiculous things our partner did before 9:00am on the 12^th of March, 2002. But it’s also kind of amazing, don’t you think? No? 

A while back, after travelling through Europe for some months, I found myself lost on the underground. I was homeless. Unemployed. Unwashed. Exhausted. Heart-broken. And infected with all the bugs that backpackers collect from grubby hostels. I had no idea where I was headed and I had no idea where I was going (which are two entirely different things). I’d been following my carefully hand-scribbled instructions, which hadn’t considered that the tube may be undergoing engineering works – rookie error! My line, the Northern line, was down. I was stuck in the dark, scary, smelly bowels of London. Dazed and directionless.

Looking around for an unsuspecting guide, I realised I was well and truly alone in the busiest city in the world. Great! Then it happened. I had a wonderful brainwave. I needed a moment. A moment would solve everything. So I threw all my luggage on the filthy floor, flung myself on top of it and let go. I had a delicious sob. The kind of sob that empties all your feelings of despair and hopelessness and gives you space to think again. The kind of sob that makes models look like Freddy Kruger. It was loud, messy and downright ugly.  

Mid-sob, I felt myself being lifted to my feet. To my horror I faced three beautiful, burly men from the BBC who were off to film a football game. They’d been yakking so much they’d failed to hear that the Northern line was down and they’d crossed my path – the path less travelled. I thanked them for their kindness and asked them to leave me there to finish my moment. They refused. They were worried about my safety. I was a quirky Kiwi girl lost in London. I needed help. I cried more. They apologised for mishearing my Australian accent. I wailed. They picked up my luggage and dragged me onto the Bakerloo line and to Waterloo Station.

From there they helped me onto the train and gently shoved me and my luggage off at Clapham Junction so I could find my way to my bestie’s home. Somewhere along the journey they’d finally guessed my correct nationality. And had successfully managed to stop the tears, without actually telling me to stop crying. They’d even induced an odd smile and a giggle or two. It was like they were seasoned pros at dealing with emotional outbursts. It was like they thought it was normal to break down every now and then.

This all made me realise that there’s really no shame in having a good 'releasing the feels' moment every now and then. People are kind to our crazy sometimes – because we all have a little crazy in us. I usually try to pack my feelings into an air-tight bomb disposal unit behind my ribs and take a psychological holiday. But the unit slowly fills up with unfiled thoughts from my brain. Then I overthink, which leads to even more feelings. Before I know it I’m about to go nuclear – and no one needs to see that.

You know… girl, woman, guy, dude or anything in-between, it’s ok to release the feels (preferably in a safe space - but, whatever, I don't judge.) It may mean looking like a hideous swamp-donkey from time to time, and perhaps feeling like an idiot. But that’s ok. We all have our moments. We all understand. We're all imperfectly made up of complexities and too many feels.  

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