I am grateful for my abundance of sentiment.

I have always had a lot of feelings. In addition to being someone who has a tendency to overthink and overanalyze, I am also someone who experiences a bounty of emotions. My memories, in fact, are rarely defined by events; they are almost exclusively defined by feeling. In other words, I rarely recall what was happening as easily as I can recall how I was feeling. I realize, now, this is a piece of my character that likely contributed to my addictive tendencies- I simply didn’t know what to do with my abundance of feeling. As I struggled to make sense of the chaos in my own head, I became increasingly empathetic toward what I imagined others to be feeling as well. So, in addition to not knowing how to manage my own emotions, I became very good at feeling responsible for others’ emotions also. It was a lot of noise to manage on any given day. But it wasn’t all unwanted noise. There was also joy to be found when I was able to separate the helpful feelings from the unhelpful feelings. But I did not have enough understanding to consistently make sense of what I was experiencing, and the incessant onslaught of noise is what became difficult for me to manage. I can liken my mind to an amphitheater that is being prepared for a concert. The members of the orchestra have all settled in their positions- instruments at the ready. The conductor raises her arms to signal the overture. At the first wave of the baton, the music gently begins. This is the morning for me. It is generally calm and peaceful and often I will hear only a gently piano or soothing violin. As the day progresses and my stresses mount, more instruments join the chorus. Each interaction I have, each situation that calls for my attention, is another invitation for a new sound- a new contribution. Often, the music begins to transition from calm, tranquil and metric to off-beat and syncopated. This chaotic, rhythmic beat can be overwhelming on the best of days, and as I consider my past, I recognize that it was a bold underline under my addictive choices. I think I became desperate to mute the volume in my head and subdue the chaotic rhythm that was so difficult for me to manage. Before I got sober, I would absolutely confess that my emotions felt like a curse. I felt something about everything- about everyone- and I was lacking in understanding about how to not react to those feelings. This plethora of emotion felt smothering and burdensome. It contributed to anxious and often depressive thoughts that led to desperate behavior as I sought to gain control. In short, I had a problem. The problem was the abundance of noise in my head, and I desperately needed a solution to silence it. That solution came in the form of drugs and alcohol. The fact that I considered drugs and alcohol to be my solution (and not my problem) was a monumental obstacle early on in my recovery. But as my life continued to spiral into unmanageability, discomfort, and unhappiness, I knew I had a choice to make- I could either consider finding new solutions or I would certainly meet my end in jails, institutions, or an early grave. My desperation to avoid those less than favorable outcomes opened the door of willingness to look at myself, and all I was feeling, in a way I never had before. It was at this place in my journey that I found myself in that proverbial auditorium. I saw the members of the orchestra seated with their instruments ready. I braced as the conductor raised her baton and I found myself holding my breath in anticipation for the noise that would not cease until the end of the day. In this moment, instead of panicking and reaching for a substance to dull the sound as I had so often done before, I regrouped, took a deep breath and settled into my seat wondering what I might notice if I calmly listened and allowed the noise to wash over me. As I took a deep breath, I heard the gentle piano and the soothing violin, and I smiled feeling encouraged and peaceful. And then I heard the cymbals, the trumpets, and the drums. As the tempo began to swell and the sound became more jarring, I felt my heart rate increase and my stress began to rise. Still, I did not react. I continued to listen and although the trumpets and the drums were adding intensity, they did not completely drown out the soothing sounds that brought me calm. If I listened with intention, I could still hear their peaceful contributions as clearly as I did before. And then, just as I thought I might finally be understanding the composition to the point where I could predict what I might hear next, the other stringed instruments joined in, and a great melancholy washed over me. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and I allowed the tears to fall unabated until I picked up on the soothing sounds once again and could feel peace. All day I sat. All day I listened. I experienced highs. I experienced lows. I experienced everything in between. I was soothed by the gentle and led to a place of contemplation. I was exhilarated by the loud and responded by seeking energetic release. I was moved by the somber and sought a way to express my sorrow. When the last note had been played and the conductor had delivered the final, definitive gesture, I could not keep from leaping to my feet in a fervent applause. I realized, then, that my feelings were the very thing that made the music worth listening to. I did not just hear noise as I had before, I had a tangible experience. I realized, then, what a gift my feelings are. They are the very thing that allow me to encounter my life in all of its unpredictable, glorious, and chaotic splendor. They are what lead me to be kind, to be funny, to be compassionate or empathetic. They are what move me to love and are what lead me to connection. They are my indicator of pain and my deliverance to healing. My abundance of emotion is not the curse I once thought it to be. It can still feel overwhelming on some days and when those times arise, I do my best to put myself back in the auditorium. I close my eyes, I let go of my expectations, and I listen. When I do, I no longer experience one instrument separate from the others. What I hear instead, is the orchestra as a whole and I recognize that each instrument lends to the tones of the others. Each sound is a compliment to the next and what I notice overall is something I missed entirely at one point in my life. Where once all I heard was noise, now I hear a symphony. I hear a melody that is equal parts, intensity, sorrow, and joy. Each part is crucial to the experience as a whole. I hear a beautiful ensemble that would only be dissonant if any one of the pieces was absent.

Today, I am grateful that when I listen with intention, I feel every beat.