invisible tears in my eyes

I don't understand why I cry so much.  More specifically, I don't understand why I've been crying so much lately.  It's not depression - I went through five years of hell with depression, and I know that this is not it.  I'm happy, generally.  I'm not burdened by anything.  But some little thing will happen during my day, something that might make the average person a bit upset but certainly nothing tear-worthy, and I'll lie in my bed and cry over it for ten or fifteen minutes and then feel perfectly alright again.  It's as if there are little fireworks inside of me and every now and then someone lights one of the fuses, and there they go off crackling inside of me strong and glowing and piercing, before little smoke spectres appear in their place and everything is calm again. 

I love being an emotional person.  I really do.  It took me years to accept that.  I used to cry at the slightest thing in elementary school and everybody would mock me, and I hated how fragile my emotional state seemed to be.  I remember when I was very little and my mom told me that I was "so sensitive", and then she explained to me what that word meant, and appropriately enough I was very, very hurt.  But no.  I love my emotions now.  I love feeling.  Everything in this world, art and music and films and tea and love, I have the incredible privilege of experiencing to a deeper and higher and more powerful degree than the vast majority of people, and I love that endlessly.  Even sorrow, though I do hate it so, a part of me loves it as well.  As Wilde put it, wisdom comes with winters. 

There are some small experiences, though, that I wish I weren't affected so deeply by.

It's so unfair to other people to have my wonky stupid emotions playing with me in such negative ways when they do a random and perfectly reasonable thing.  It's not his problem at all, it's mine.  And my cumbersome emotional states for which I have a slowly reblooming contempt.

Sick Child (Lithograph)

Edvard Munch

1897