The only downside to being inherently positive is, well, when you’re not.
But the absence of positivity itself is not the issue; rather, it’s the interpretation of that absence that grinds my gears.
If you gave an auditorium filled with all the people who have ever came into contact with me and asked them to write one word about me on a small dry-erase board, the room would be split between signs of “finerthanwine” and “energetic” (and yes, they would all probably italicize the word as well). I’m loud, constantly laughing, I speak very quickly, and I incorporate a dance *body roll* move into almost everything I do. The important thing to understand here, however, is that I’m consistent— the exhibition of my energy is constant enough to where people characterize it as the core of my personality. So what happens then, when like any human being, that positive energy is simply not there?
A break up, family issues, a terrible test grade, emotional self-debilitation, or simply “just one of those days”— I experience both blatant and subtle negativity alike, just like anyone else, and sometimes I don’t have enough energy to overcome it. But here lies the problem: if I let my low energy show, if I break the consistent display of Energizer Bunny Edan, people think something is wrong with me.
“Hey, are you ok?” It’s a question that comes from a place of empathy, and I respect that, but it’s a question I’ve gotten terribly annoyed with. No, I’m not depressed. No, I’m not mad at you. And no, despite all your sincerity, you can’t fix me with some goo-goo, I-care-about-you eyes and a hug. I’m not the sun, I can’t rely on emotional nuclear fusion to incessantly pump out brightness until I die. I’m human, and sometimes I need a day off.
But it’s not easy to be left alone. By dependably being positive and high energy, I put myself in the limelight, and as Melisandre of Game of Thrones puts it, “The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows.” When I walk into a classroom with low energy, I feel like everyone is looking at me, expecting something of me. I sit in twisted apprehension of someone asking me what’s wrong, and I feel embarrassed when I don’t want to give the answer.
Displaying my low energy creates a heavy knot in my chest, so to avoid it, I try to keep up with the consistency as best as I can, flashing a smile or wishing everyone a loud, wonderful day. This act I’ve become so good at putting on satisfies people’s expectations of my behavior and spares me the awkwardness of confrontation, but it drives the negativity further into my heart and makes it harder for me to scoop out.
My point is that unhappiness is natural. I respect the negativity that enters my life because it teaches me how to appreciate the moments of life in all their glory. But negativity doesn’t define me and its presence in my life is not automatically indicative of a disastrous malfunction within my emotional wiring. Yet, I’m not shunning this interpretation. It’s an innocent one, and one borne from the kinder spirits of man. All I ask for is space— space to feel, space to learn, and space to return.
