On: The Act of Not Crying

Somewhere in my childhood, I learned that crying was a sign of weakness. Man or woman, child or adult. Crying, and all its accompanying emotions are to be suffocated or, at the very least, relegated to dark, private rooms where you couldn't bother everyone with you sniffling. I don't know where I got that idea. My mom didn't cry when I was young. Then, in my teenage years, the men in my mother's life (my dad, her brothers) began to fall and fall apart. I remember for a long time feeling a deep seeded disgust for my mom, because she just couldn't get past her grief and misery and just keep it together. I hated it and I couldn't feel pity for her. I went to school the morning after my father died. It was two years later, in a college, chatting about men and love with my girl friend, that I first truly felt the weight of my dad's passing. I basically exploded in front of her, feeling dizzy, out of control and deeply deeply sad. I felt like I'd surrendered or that I'd lost the war.

Since then, that's pretty much how I handle the tough stuff; push it into the corners where I can forget about it and continue with everyday life dealing with the full force when it all bubbles over. I'm late to respond with my emotions. I would rather let things wash over me, leaving the decompressing for a safe private place where no one can tell me I'm weak and no one can see me lose.

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