Let Me Cry My Good Cry

Last Sunday, I cried. Not a little sob. Not a teardrop or two. It was a stream of tears. You know? One of those snot cries. A face to the ground wailing cry.

I was in church and it was time for the preacher to come forward. I tried to talk myself into getting up, fixing my face, and going to sit down so I could listen. It worked for like two seconds and there I was again. Back on the floor. My face kissing the carpet, while white sheets were draped over me. I cried off and on for three whole hours! For anyone who knows me, that is quite unusual.

Growing up in my household, the only emotions I saw was a range from anxious to anger. My father was physically and psychologically abusive towards my mother and he was emotionally abusive towards me. He was easily angered and had an uncontrollable temper. His mood often shifted the atmosphere. When he was upset, it was obvious and he often took it out on us. You could not reason with him. Our thoughts and feelings were inferior to his. Our voice did not matter or at least it did not feel like it mattered.

My mother, on the other hand, can be quite anxious. My grandmother is also generally anxious, but their immediate family are laid back. They get along well with each other. There weren’t any violent outbursts or constant put downs. My mother was ill-prepared for a relationship with someone like my father. She did not know how to respond or what to do in the relationship and it left her nervous, hypersensitive, and self-conscious all the time. This is the way she continues to deal with many situations.

Expressions of surprise, joy, satisfaction, and contentment were not displayed in my home often. Instead, I saw disapproval, manipulation, defensiveness and fear. This was too intense for me. As a result, I would withdraw because I did not want to replicate what I saw. I retreated to my room and would watch television or go on AOL (the primary online service at the time).

Growing up in an abusive household, I learned to bottle my emotions inside. I became an expert at not just masking my pain from other people, but I also hid it from myself. My thoughts and feelings became inferior to everyone else’s. I did not feel like my voice mattered. It was better to not feel, or so I thought. Sometimes my mouth would take over and speak words I had no idea were so brutal. I thought I was helping everyone by hiding my feelings. I had no idea my ability to hide wasn’t as good as I thought and that instead I was hurting others. This is how I learned to deal with life and most situations. My emotions ranged from withdrawn and unaware to harmful, yet still unaware.

When it came to grieving my father’s passing, I did not have a healthy reference point for coping. Yes, I cried some. Yes, I missed him. I still do. However, every year it felt like I did not really mourn, or had not mourned enough.  Through my soul-searching, I have found my voice. I believe that I matter. I am more intentional about being in tune with my emotions. How do I feel? What do I want? In this journey, I’ve learned that it is okay to be angry.  I’ve had to tell myself, it doesn’t mean that I will go into a rage. I can express anger or disappointment without hurting others or depriving myself of intimacy with others. I have become more self-aware in many ways. I express emotions that were stunted in the past, like pride and joy in the small things.

What was most important during my grieving process was that I learned to cry. It does not mean I am depressed. It does not mean I am incapable of controlling my emotions. It means I allow myself to not have to be the strong one all the time. I can actually be broken and still be useful. I can cry and mourn and still be effective in life. I’m just finally catching up on years of bottling it all in. So… let me cry my good cry. After all, its therapeutic. It’s cathartic. It’s for my MESH.

If you or someone you know is experiencing any form of abuse, please utilize the resources listed here.