Don’t Listen To People Who Say You’re “Too Much”
Dispatches from a life where people tried to shield my shine.
Growing up, people told me I was too much. Unexpected turbulence. A pocket of rough air you had to plow your way through. Would you mind dialing it down a notch, a hair? A little lower, Felicia. Not quite, almost there. So a scream became a squeak became a whisper became a whimper became a mouth gaped wide became nothing at all. They preferred my mouth padlocked shut, body in a lockbox, face falling out of the frame.
All because I wouldn’t play nice in their prison of smooth rides and clear skies. I refused to make a home in a safe, beige state — a place where no one ever kicked up a fuss.
When I was small, my mother’s voice was the loudest sound while I was mouse-quiet. I practiced invisibility, spoke only when spoken to. I was a strange child who preferred the company of Sam, The Crack Addict, and Sylvia, who subsisted on canned sardines. When I was eight, Sylvia’s body was discovered a week after she died. Neighbors dialed 911 because of the smell. I cried for weeks.
Years later, a lover would tell me that I felt too much. I was a body forever tender to the touch, broken and bruised. Why do you have to go after everything so hard?
