Without any training in feelings, they’d scare me.  Why was Dad mad at me when I got hurt?  Why did Mom yell at me when I went to sensitivity training as a teen?  Shouting and silent pouting, I see in retrospect, was as good as I was trained in feelings.

Through long years in recovery for me, I heard about the dysfunctional family rules: “Don’t feel.  Don’t talk.  And certainly don’t talk about your feelings.”  Since no one knew really what to do with them, we’ll just cross that river of DeNile and pretend they aren’t there–no matter how many times we crash into that huge menacing monster of an elephant in the room.

I’ve learned to give them some slack, like friends, to hear them out before judging them.  Since I’ve had kids myself, I see my feelings as small children (certainly they weren’t trained to practice maturity!). 

So I weep when it comes over me and see the path of the tears later.  I temper the fierce rising rage that travels up the back of my spine and walk her around the block before speaking to my boss.  I simmer for a day or two before I assert myself to my partner or child.

Today I hold hands with my feelings and we swim the depths of friendship–with myself.