A Girl Holding Spring Lilac Flowers In The Grass Photographed With Expired Polaroid Film


I held a yellow Post-it note in my hand. Written on it was a phone number and the name of a doctor.

My emotional meteorology had always been extreme. From sunny days of ecstatic bliss to dark tempests that nearly rendered me immobile, my temperament was a fierce one.

Moodiness. Sensitivity. Emotional energies that, I believed, were flaws in my design. I spent years attempting to conquer them.

This was before I (mercifully) learned about the delicate beauty of high sensitivity, the lunar ebbs and flows governing those born under the sign of cancer.

That week, I had been struck by another emotional torrent and was wondering yet again if something within me was broken. Perhaps I was afflicted with depression, anxiety, or bipolar disorder. Perhaps a medication would turn my choppy ocean currents into a tranquil lake, and render my inner world smooth.

The yellow Post-it held the phone number of a psychiatrist who could write a prescription.

It was a familiar juncture. In the past, I had chosen not to make the call, and eventually threw the Post-it away. Would I call now?

Medication seemed to be a wellness trend like yoga. After all, most of the women I knew had taken medication to remedy their emotions.

This thought suddenly struck me as bizarre. A question mark began form.

Why did I know so many women who had taken medication for their emotions?

Forgotten knowledge was lifting forward within me, and something hideous was being revealed.

We had learned that our emotions were problems. So we were squashing them away.

Emotional currents are powerful information. They can detect what has been relegated to the margins, what has been forgotten or erased.

When elements of voice are stuffed underground, they churn and boil until they overflow. Many voices have been flattened into projections. Two-dimensionality is simply easier to understand.

But depth and richness extend beneath us.

Pent up voices are bubbling.

My voice emerges from my bone marrow.  Like surges of energy pulsing underground, like electricity with no outlet, it erupts in circuits of internal fire.

My voice does not need to be sizzled, defeated, nor smothered. It needs to be released.

When we remove the lids and uncurl our limbs, our voices take flight. And our existence, it turns out, extends in infinite dimensionality.