The Devil’s Advocate’s Frustration

One reason why blogging is such a nice therapy is that it allows people like me to write out feelings that I would never express openly in public.

Or to anyone, really.

For quite some time now I have been trying to keep up with emotions. I kid you not, emotions come later for people like me.

I justify almost everything, I have to see equations to every single thing happening around me, and when everything makes sense, emotions start making claims.

It’s a step-by-step process, and it involves a lot of numbers and repetitions, patterns and codes, to come to a decision.

Once, after few years of friendship, I felt an odd poke at the heart. I wondered for so long why there was a nudge.

So I started mapping out everything revolving the friendship, I went back to messages my friend and I exchanged, interviewed people who were there, and I analyzed every bit of our moments and events until I saw a clear picture from different angles and times.

The moment I realized that I’d been mistreated for so long, I met anger. And anger wasn’t quiet.

It was lost for so long that when it came up to the surface, it wanted to be heard.

Of course, it was as if finding out the chocolate you already ate had been expired for few months. It was way too late, and why would I make such emotional claims after things had passed for so long?

Then there are people who take advantage of my slow grasp on emotions.

When someone I believed was a soul mate stabbed me, I went back and analyzed everything. I asked questions, traced back the steps, and went around and around until emotions faded.

Given my long process to find answer, the fastest way to end it was to forgive.

By the time emotions could no longer make claims, he stabbed me again, fully aware of the fact that emotions wouldn’t reach me until much later.

It repeated over and over again, until I went numb and it hit me that at some point, my heart was dead.

It was as if blood ran out. I was running barefoot on broken glasses without realizing how my feet were bruised the whole time.

It was too late to save me. And I wished I’d known sooner. I wished I had the Flash’s speed on my side.

And I wished emotions would come find me quick. Like they would other people around me.

But, I wasn’t built that way, and changing one’s nature proved to be more difficult than I’d thought.

Unfortunately, the emotions slowly built themselves up until I noticed a poke. And by then, it was a flood of anger, sadness, disappointment, and depression.

As much as I tease my sensitive friends, I wish I could be like them. To be emotionally aware, to be hurt the moment I got stabbed the first time, to be sad when I had to be, to be angry when I was mistreated the first time. To not be used over and over again like a stupid tool.

Then the worst part is that it goes both ways. Not only am I insensitive to my own heart, I am insensitive to others’s hearts as well.

My mother once told me, that I was a sensitive child. That whenever she wasn’t feeling alright, I’d knock on the door and ask, “Mom, are you okay?”

But it was reading patterns. I knew my mom’s habits and I read her patterns. It was like taking an exam over something I’d memorized a hundred times over.

The rest of the time, especially people I didn’t have the privilege to grow up with, it was me wondering if I had a heart. What’s the space in my chest? Is there even a heart to feel for others?

Who can truly know?

Then it got to this part, where I wrote out frustration and anger, pouring them out, wishing I wouldn’t have to do such thing next time. Making claims to those who hurt me would be foolish now, and I know better.

Even in making claims I have to justify.

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