Heart on my Sleeve

In my freshman dorm, there was a door in the basement that was black, thick, locked, and scary. I have no idea what was really behind that door, but I told my boyfriend that that’s where I keep my heart. It became a running joke that I was “heartless” or stone cold. Sometimes this is the demeanor I portray (probably as a self-defense mechanism or to not come across overly sensitive) but it was a joke because both he and I knew that this was nowhere close to true.

When I was little, I wanted to go catch lightening bugs. I begged my older sister to come with me, but she was busy or didn’t want to – I don’t remember now. I was sad, but my dad agreed to go out with me. We hadn’t been out long when we heard our neighbors fighting and screaming at each other. My dad thought it was best to go in because of that, so we did. When we walked in, my sister was sitting on the stairs putting on her shoes so she could come join us.

I was crushed. Not because I didn’t get to catch lightening bugs, but because my sister got ready to come outside with me and she didn’t get to. She put in effort to do that for me, but she didn’t get to. I felt terrible. It wasn’t my fault and she wasn’t angry or upset. She honestly didn't mind at all. But I though I’d let her down. I still think about it to this day.

People do call me sensitive, and maybe I am. But if being sensitive means being caring and empathetic, then I’m good with that. I love passionately, emotionally, and fully. So no, I don’t keep my heart in a scary locked closet in the basement. I keep it on my sleeve.