Don’t Drop it.

You’re a woman of great sentiment, my therapist’s voice echoes in my head.

You are a woman of great sentiment, I whisper to myself as I pick up the shattered remains of the gift I had just purchased.

You are a woman of great sentiment, I repeat again, feeling the tears start to well in my eyes as I hold what used to be a Christmas present that I had so thoughtfully and lovingly found for someone in my family.

You are a woman of great sentiment, I say again even as I feel my walls crumbling and my emotions flooding in.

I am a woman of great sentiment.

There I was, crouched on the garage floor, picking up the broken pieces of a cocktail kit I had just dropped. There was no saving it.

On the heels of a most incredible evening with the gem, my high of all highs suddenly came down down down.

Forcing myself to keep the emotions at bay, trying to keep it together in the presence of my gem, I repeated this phrase over and over and over again, trying to remind myself of why I felt heartbroken at this seemingly inconsequential accident.

I am woman of great sentiment.

I tried to look at this from a different angle: I could’ve fallen and cracked open my head. It could’ve been worse.

And I was right. It could’ve been way worse.

So why was I taking this so deeply? Why was I allowing it to ruin my beautiful evening? It’s a broken jar.

I mean, it’s not like I’m surprised at reacting with such fervor.

This type of emotionally charged overreaction is not new to me.

We’re talking about the same woman who can’t throw a bouquet of flowers away because she can’t stomach the idea of flowers going into a trashcan. So she carefully lays them to rest outside..

We’re talking about the same woman who started crying when her neighbors cut down a beautiful healthy aspen. Poor tree was leaning..

We’re talking about the same woman who bursts into tears at the bar because she comes across animal rescue posts. All those lonely faces..

We’re talking about the same woman who looked forlornly at a dead butterfly that had been trapped in the recyclables trash bag. What a tragic end..

I am, as my therapist so simply put it: a woman of great sentiment.

Which is a beautiful quality, and at the very core of me, the essence of who I am. But when I let those feelings consume me? That’s where the trouble lies.

Because after picking up the rest of the broken remains, I started to seize with embarrassment. As if I wasn’t emotional enough, I was now overcome with shame at how I was reacting in front of someone I really liked. Negative, ill-spoken self-deprecating thoughts slowly undid any sense of calm, and I was horrified that my gem was seeing me in this state: emotional, vulnerable, flawed, and now blubbering on the bathroom floor.

I wasn’t used to guys seeing me like this; in fact, he was the first.

Some guys had hinted at my tendency to overreact, sure. One had even brazenly pointed it out to me: “you seem to over-react a lot”, which thanks I am FULLY aware of, I sooooo appreciate you pointing out my biggest insecurity.”

Others had sensed my tenacious attempts at controlling my emotions, then ran the hell away from me and all my feelings.

But this one? He stayed. Allowed me to cry, process, and cry some more.

All. Without. Judgement.

I’m not used to that.

It’s terrifying, allowing myself to be seen as I really am. Especially in front of someone I adore. I mean, there’s always the fear of: what if they don’t like the real me?

Oh my darling, but what if they do? And accept and appreciate you for who you really are?

Let that one sink in.

Self-acceptance is a process. And this insecurity of feeling so intensely is something I’m still rather tender about showing to most.

It feels like I’m baring my naked soul on my upturned palms.

Here I am: fragile, tender, prone to shattering. Please don’t drop me.

Like I dropped my jar..