baby cried the day the circus came to town

I'm really bad at talking about my feelings and even worse at expressing them. I'm not going to do this very often, so don't get used to it. I apologize in advance for the emotional hemmorage, but I'm not in therapy. Don't worry I have some sex toys to review, so I'll be back in a little bit, I promise.

Cue the violins and smear the lens with Vaseline.

The personal lives and emotional state of my family weren't really a topic of conversation in the house. We'd gather around the dinner table and talk about school, politics, work, something we heard on All Things Considered or saw on Nova, the facts and figures of our day, but when it got down to talking about anything brewing on the inside, it was a quick, "Nothing's wrong, I'm just tired" and the subject matter was closed. 

My parents treated us a little like acquaintances passing on the street. You may ask, "How are you?" but you're really not expecting an answer and if you get one, it's all awkward and uncomfortable.

My siblings? They were problematic with epic dramas that warranted a regular slot on day time television. My parents would look at me with relief that I was so good and quiet and never caused them any (well, not to the degree they were used to) grief. I was a gift, a reward, for putting up with my brother and sister. So, you can guess what that meant. I had to be perfect.

I learned early to never admit when I was depressed or confused or in pain, because that would mean I was making things difficult and my parents had enough difficulty with my brother and sister. I didn't want to add to their stress.

Well, there's only so long that was going to last. After a typical angsty teenage period complete with lots of really bad poetry, some cutting, listening to "How Soon is Now" over and over and an unhealthy obsession with vampires, my folks realized that their daughter might actually be a human being after all and were completely perplexed as to how to deal with me. My father's way of easing my pain was to either one-up-me with his own suffering or use a kind of passive-aggressive blackmail to get me to talk about my feelings (or else!) My mother would get uncomfortable, take a few steps backwards and recommend I do some research at the library on the subject of my misery because there were sure to be experts who knew much more about it than she did. Things haven't really changed.

So, you really don't need to read any further. I'm sure there are more important or interesting things you could be doing than reading about me whinning about my "poor childhood". 

Sure, I allow myself a cry now and then, but then I shake it off, suck it up, walk it off, fix myself a drink and get back to work. I certainly don't burden other people with my problems! So what if sometimes I feel stupid, lonely and unloved, blah, blah, blah... who doesn't? At least I don't live in Sudan or have a terminal illness or was born with a conjoined twin.

I have nothing to complain about. In fact, I've got a whole lot to be grateful for and happy about. I am smart and I am loved (two out of three ain't bad) so snap the fuck out of it. Don't make a fuss, don't cause a stir, do not be difficult!

Don't say it. I know that I'm "entitled to my feelings" and all that. 

I still feel like a little pussy.

Now ladies and gentlemen, Miss Melissa Manchester: