my hands shake

I find it very hard to conceal my emotions. When I feel sad, or triggered, or angry, or upset, my whole body feels it all at once. My skin tingles. I once called a friend to hash out some frustrations, and just the prospect of confrontation caused me to cry so badly she thought I was having a panic attack. I could in fact barely breathe, let alone talk. 

I couldn’t conceal my downs if I tried, and even when I think I’m succeeding people ask why I look like death. And when I’m excited or eager, it comes gushing like a waterfall out of my mouth even before I realise. Once I went for a JJ concert and my ex who sat beside me was deaf in one ear for three days. In Year One of college, my professor noted that the soundtrack of our Greek trip was “Karen’s ohmygod it’s so prettys”. I didn’t even realise how often I was using it. It came out with every breath, with every step up Delphi, with every corner we turned and every new ancient rock we found on the floor. 

I like to think of it as my innocence, a childlike purity worn on my sleeve. But that’s now how grown-ups operate. It is wise to think before you speak, to hold on till you cool down, to maintain your tranquility. I try — so hard — to breathe and play it cool but when I’m in a state of excitement or agitation my voice still trembles. My hands still shake. I can’t type properly. I can barely speak. My voice changes, becomes thin, I can’t sing; the pitch runs all over the place. 

It’s funny that a certain mezzo-melancholy gives your art that special spark, that x-factor, but push the needle further and the overdrive causes your performance to break down. And then push it even further, till it goes to the extreme — when I’m too sad, or too angry — and I can no longer write or sing at all. Instead I freeze up and go quiet and have to lie down, and the only language left is tears. These things always get the better of me in the worst of ways. I must take those meds. Soothe the heart. Learn control. But my hands still give me away.