Am I Being Too Much?

Late night thoughts about those "dark emotional feelings" which are supposed to stay hidden but come bubbling up to the surface anyway.

Thought bubbles in action. Photo by Cristian Palmer on Unsplash

I am a cloud of darkness that threatens to envelop innocent bystanders trying to live their lives. My thoughts swoop in as a thick tangible wind, my memories grip the soft surface of the earth, and the sheer weight of the feelings and the depths of the emotions overturn cars, uproot trees, and unleash rainwater on everything. In short, everything is cold, wet, and overturned.

When I share caregiver memories about Mom, I feel like I have to restrain myself. I talk about the emotions like love and kindness and self-sacrifice. I don’t talk as much about the unspeakable rage, the Mariana Trench of depression, that eerie sense of being so close to death yet not even knowing what the f**k happens when someone dies.

It’s hard to witness someone’s life as they move toward death. It’s hard to be in the mindset of remission only to have that hope yanked violently away. It’s weird to anticipate death yet not know the exact day or time or hour.

Even though I did all that I could in terms of the help she needed, and people told me that I was still doing well, there is that deep imposter syndrome of: I could have done better. And it’s not like someone tells me something once and I immediately imprint it on my mind. If anything, what I needed (and perhaps what other caregivers need) is a constant stream of someone telling me, “You’re doing great. Keep going.”

To tell all of this to friends and family and acquaintances is too much. 

Perhaps that is why I “like” when I meet people who have experienced great pain in their life. Finally, I think. Someone I can talk to! Who can relate about grief! 

But even then I feel terrible. Why am I glad that someone else has gone through such horrific trauma? Who has undergone or is undergoing insurmountable grief? 

Perhaps it is because I feel less alone. 

Perhaps it is because I can then delve deeper into the gritty aspects of caregiving without feeling so much shame. Without feeling so much guilt at unloading these deeply personal thoughts to people. Without feeling like I am sharing the darkest aspects just for the shock value. 

Is real life then too much? 

I don’t want to feel shame when talking about Mom or caregiving. I don’t want anyone else to feel this feeling, either. 

This isn’t a post that has a revelation. Something like, “And after all this time, I finally realized that these dark feelings I have are normal, and it’s okay to talk about them.”

Instead, this is all a learning process. Sometimes, I feel okay to go into the depths of caregiving. Sometimes, I shy away from it. Both are valid. 

Perhaps, the idea is to allow myself the freedom of expression. 

There is always a balance, and there is a balance between expression and silence.

With caregiving, I don’t want to remain silent.

I can’t. 

Therefore, it is a process of opening. Of revealing. Of cracking open the innermost parts of us, of life, and sharing these moments and experiences with others. 

Am I too much? 

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Photo by Drew Beamer on Unsplash

I think about all of the articles I read in classes on death and dying and the books about medical diagnoses and cancer and heartache. Except for two or three articles, and some sections in the books, I felt rage because I wanted MORE.

Where are the people with the thoughts and the feelings? Where are the souls crying out at the loss of a loved one? Sometimes, when walking around, I look at the people around me. Really, truly look at people not quite to the point of uncomfortable staring from an awkward person, but just to notice them and really wonder: are they in pain? 

When Mom died, I wasn't able to see joy. Literally. Seeing joy in other people enraged me. How were they able to experience joy? I thought. Why were they still alive when Mom was dead? Obviously, these were thoughts I shared with no one. But they are thoughts I have, and I wonder, who is this benefiting by keeping these unsavory thoughts to myself? 

Sometimes, I feel like people try to anesthetize life and take the emotion out of reality. I've seen this in articles and books about hard medical things. Things that should contain all the emotion but instead, at points, are devoid of it. 

When I was in the midst of my anger and pain and rage and sadness and sometimes joy because why not, I wanted to see that somewhere. Anywhere! 

Instead, I read articles that were too edited and precise. Bland words coated the inside of my mouth. I wanted spice, pizzazz, sour. I wanted everything. 

Instead, each word tasted like the food I had to eat when I had COVID-19—bland, with a faint echo of taste and just a bit sad. 

In the end, when I have these thoughts of feeling like I'm "too much," I have to remind myself: what would I have wanted to read when I was going through some of the worst moments of my life? What would have helped? 

I would have wanted to read all the emotions distilled into words on the page.

Not diluted. 

So I will keep reminding myself of my why. 

If you ever feel like you are being “too much,” I hope you know that you are not. Please continue to share your thoughts and feelings and wildly untamed emotions.

We need more of that in the world.

Madeline Wahl is a postgraduate student pursuing an MLitt in Fantasy Literature at the University of Glasgow in Scotland. She is a writer, solo traveler, and millennial caregiver to her mom, who recently passed from terminal cancer. Her writing has appeared on Reader's Digest, HuffPost, Red Magazine, and McSweeney's, among others. She is working on her first novel in YA Fantasy and her first nonfiction book proposal on millennial caregiving.