the canary
Growing up I was always too much. Too sensitive. Too loud. Too open-minded. Too emotional. My parents loved the things these parts of me produced: my art, my acting, my dancing, my adventurous spirit. All things fueled by emotion and one’s ability to feel. But they viewed my actual ability to feel as a disorder. Something to fix. The fix was screaming, shaming, gaslighting, and neglect. Someone had to toughen me up for the real world, right?
Imagine a child’s confusion when they’re praised for producing and performing but shamed for the drive that motivates them to express this part of their being. Eventually they must choose their soul, the origin of their most pure and special parts, or the things their parents like, only void of their soul’s most pure and special parts. Shame doesn’t leave space for both.
But like most things in our childhood, it’s not really a choice. We’re taught to trust our parents, to never question them, so of course we choose our parents over ourselves. They’re our security - for better or worse. Chaos and shame and pain feel like home because they come from home, they come from our parents. They entangle with our perception of love because we’re children and we don’t know any better. Until we do.
And now I do. Having my sensitivities poked and prodded had a coal/diamond effect on my ability to feel and my awareness of what those feelings mean. Every emotion compounded with the shame, confusion, and loneliness of emotional abuse and forced me to feel even more. They thought they were fixing my sensitivity, but they were only making it stronger - more calibrated. Now I know that this is a skill, born from mindfulness and tuned with vulnerability and non-judgment.
My feelings and emotions, like yours, are messengers. They stir at injustice to myself or others. They begin to bubble into anger when I’m letting my boundaries slide and need to hold myself accountable. My tears welling at a sunset remind me how perfect and beautiful the present moment is. They’re never inconvenient, or too much. The intensity of what I feel is a gift, and I will continue to honor it.
This week I followed my feelings and I asked why my textbooks promote dangerous, outdated misinformation masquerading as a religious view when I’m studying counseling, a social science that requires non-judgment in order to be successful? Why is queerness labeled a complication?
I was told I’m too much. My professor, who once praised every perfectly scored paper I wrote, said that while this program works with students from a multitude of backgrounds, belief systems, and cultural identities, they’re afraid they’re not currently able to provide me with what I’m looking for. They said other folks have had concerns but mine clearly go much deeper.
Too much. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Perform, but don’t feel. Give us what we want, and then stop talking.
I felt triggered because this exchange reminded me of standing up to my bully, my mother. I felt unsafe because that’s what trauma does, but I felt, and feel, no regret. I’ll cope with being triggered ten thousand more times if it means addressing what needs to be addressed.
I spent 33 years believing I was too much, but now I know better.
I am not too much. I’m the canary.
This dark, dingy coal mine is the problem.
photo by Alyssa Lentz
