Am I alone in feeling like my emotions are becoming increasingly complex? When I think back, I feel like I used to be a much more one-dimensional person, if that makes any sense. I’m not quite sure how to put this into words. It’s not a feeling of nostalgia for days fraught with fewer responsibilities, or for times of fewer emotional peaks and valleys. Rather, I fear that one day my thoughts and their significances will be beyond my comprehension. (I’m pretty sure that didn’t make any sense… so, case in point.) I’m unsure as to whether it’s a combination of stressors (family, school, music, friends, GSA, and the many other things I want to complain about), or that I am genuinely a more complex person. I’m also not saying that I’m unique in this; after all, how would I know?
We all contain this unconscious reservoir of feelings, impulses, thoughts, fears, and all that good shit — psychology taught me this. Yet I wonder whether the bottom of this reservoir is made of concrete. Is there a limit to our capacity for emotion?
This got kind of off topic, so I’ll bring it back with another thought I’ve been having lately: maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to be a scientist when I grow up. (Yes, I used the phrase every teenager hates, “when I grow up,” because let’s face it: we aren’t grown up. But hey, the only people that are done growing up are the dead.) I mean, I’ve known this, but maybe I don’t belong in Science really at all. Bearing that in mind, what will I do? I know I don’t need to have that figured out right this minute, but it usually helps to have a general sense of ability, or purpose. I can’t think of a genuine talent I have that will take me anywhere. That sounds awfully pessimistic, but I know there’s truth to it. What can I offer to the world, or, hell, to the people around me, that others cannot? And what if that ability, should it exist, is not something I enjoy? What then? Do I just mope around, earning enough money doing something I hate to achieve those few-and-far-between moments of true happiness?
As far as teen-angsty rants go, this might be a bit common of a sentiment. But, seriously, when you stop to look at the big picture, it can scare the shit out of you. It’s so easy to see that others are making it through life just fine when you aren’t. But if there’s anything else psychology has taught me, it’s that we tend to remember the bad times more than the good ones, and our standards for happiness raise with each exceptionally happy moment. Basically, happiness is a drug — a powerfully addictive one — and the rest of life is its withdrawal symptoms. You can’t indulge in it without feeling the consequences, whether it’s that night, the following week, or years down the road. I never thought I’d say this, and please don’t take it out of context, but all I want right now is to overdose on it and die a blissful death. I need it; I crave it; but I’m feeling pretty done with the withdrawal symptoms. Yet here’s the sad irony: eventually, whether within a week or a year, I will hardly even remember the indescribable feeling I have right now.