A powerfully written post about the last time I cried which incredibly was an entire year ago. Each day I push to reconnect with the emotions and still find there is only the briefest of sensation.
December 28, 2015
Morning breaks and I’m already up, letting dogs out. The sun peeks over the horizon with fingertips of color streaking through the clouds. Breathing deeply I fill my lungs with the crisp morning air and stretch my arms towards the sky. For these moments I am calm inside myself. I watch the dogs wandering around doing their business. I whistle and they turn, then run to me to come inside where it’s warm.
I workout, live streaming it while pushing my body to it’s limits. Treadmill, weights until I get to the point of passing out, then boxing. Boxing always being my reward for the other two. It is my outlet and a reward for all the tightly held anger I still struggle with each week. The days I get to box are the best days as I get out all my irritability and stress.
Emotions still escape me, yet anger can flare like a match brought to life but also just as easily blow out. Crying, it still escapes me which is funny as it seems like all I used to do was cry. Perhaps it’s my hormones finally settling down to normal levels. Crying, of course did happen and quite publicly when I broadcasted a poem I read for a friend’s birthday gift. She knows how much I’ve struggled with what comes so easily to her. I’d practiced it, the tears started coming and I took a deep breathe, pushed the red button.
One look at myself, with tears standing in my eyes and I was almost undone. I read the poem, got through it and nearly sobbed out loud. I hadn’t know until that singular moment how much her friendship meant to me. When I hit the “end broadcast” button I began sobbing and was a bit horrified at this deep emotion I had somehow managed to touch inside myself.
As the day went on, texts, voice messages from people who’d watched the broadcast, crying during their own messages I finally understood. It was o.k. to have finally allowed myself to be vulnerable. Somehow the poetry I had written touched this place where I was able to cry, to finally cry without reservation.
I cried for all that I had been. I cried for what I had done to survive. I cried for the person who had believed herself broken beyond repair. I cried for the person I had become who could no longer cry. I sobbed until I thought I might throw up. Then I was done. The flow suddenly ended and I felt free in a part of me which had been closed up.
Will I cry again? Perhaps I will, time will tell if I am able to reconnect with this place. Perhaps my art, my poetry is the key.
(Also published on USFRA.org)