I’m well aware that it’s bad luck to divulge a birthday wish, but I don’t think the rule applies here because I’m not telling you all my wish for my 27th year. I’m simply typing it instead, for it to live eternally on this paper and on the internet.
Because when the clock strikes midnight on June 23 into the early morning hours of June 24, there is going to be one request on the tip of my tongue.
That request is going to be not to lose the ability to feel deeply.
It might sound rather silly when I put it that way, but the truth is that I’ve always been embarrassed by just how deeply I feel things. Because, with a disability, there is an extra layer of emotions to feel deeply. And for the last almost 12 years, I have carried the affliction like a curse, because it is the norm within society to not care.
I could point to probably a thousand scenarios over the course of my life as proof of this. But I’m going to go for the obvious ones. Because they are arguably the ones that left the most indelible marks.
I first fell in love when I was nine years old, with a blue-eyed boy who had blonde, floppy hair — at the time. And I was hopelessly infatuated with him for nine years. He was arguably one of the most annoying boys in my grade and he got away with it — for the most part — because his father was a physics teacher in the town’s high school. There were a million and one reasons why he wasn’t an exemplary first boy to fall for.
But my heart was already done for when he helped translate what I was saying to a new teacher at the beginning of the school year. It was the first time a boy had taken that initiative to help me, and I felt like an invisible string was tethering me to him. Because it felt like he saw me in a way that no one else had. And I clung to any time our paths crossed in the following years of middle and high school like they were gasps of clean air.
Back in the day, hearing his name and a single glance from him was enough to stop my heart. We would go on to become somewhat friends during our senior year, but I knew it wasn’t anything that was sustainable beyond high school. I was scared to tell him how I felt, because I knew he didn’t feel the same way. So I didn’t.
The dream that I had of being with him was one that was always born to die. The hardest part was letting it go.
The second time I would fall in love was a lot more recently, with a man who has hazel eyes and short brown hair. And it was for all the right reasons, because Joe brought out a lot of emotions in me that I didn’t think I would ever feel. But I have had to keep reminding myself that just because I loved him, it doesn’t mean that he was the right person.
And I know that I’m in the process of healing from that gash, because I don’t imagine texting him every time I had a bad day.
By having a little time and separation from each, I acknowledge that my first two experiences were alike. They both ended with the quiet acceptance of things that are beyond my control. With Joe, my pride got in the way of telling him how I felt, knowing that he didn’t feel the same. I was also insanely infuriated with myself that I let myself fall for someone again, when my feelings weren’t reciprocated.
At the end of the day though, as much as I can say that my life would be better if I cared less, I’m ultimately grateful to have had each of these experiences, because I learned a lot from them. They left their marks, but they certainly gave me a lot of writing material.
While brainstorming in my head for this column, I had a sudden realization about my tendency to feel deeply — that it’s necessary for a creative person, rather than something to be ashamed of. Because without my ability to feel emotions strongly, I wouldn’t be able to convey those emotions to readers.
Now, as I’ve grown older, I’ve become better at distinguishing between when I need to feel things deeply and when I don’t. Because, especially as an individual who has a chronic disability, it is impossible to feel everything and not become completely unhinged.
It is a fine line that I will likely have to balance on for the rest of my life. But as I blow out the candles on this birthday cake, I would much rather feel than become numb.
And I know the right man will appreciate that about me.
Gazette columnist Joanna Buoniconti is a freelance writer and editor. She is currently pursuing her master’s at Emerson College. She can be reached at columnist@gazettenet.com.