How We Cry

I wish I could go back to being one of those people who welled up with tears at the slightest emotional provocation.  I used to be.  I used to have to carry make up with me and tissues with me because at any moment I might require a make-up fix from tearing up and crying.

But now I’m not.   At a time of my life when I *should* be crying at the slightest provocation, I find myself *stuck*

I feel like I’m choking.  I feel like my throat is closing up.

To put it in a way that most people will understand, it’s like being nauseous and knowing you’re going to throw up.  The nausea builds, and builds until you can’t ignore it any further, and then your body forces out the unwanted stomach contents.

Welcome to my grief.

It builds and builds and builds, outwardly I seem “ok” or perhaps somewhat sad, but there’s no real indication that when the feelings get to a breaking point, that when I get to the point of feeling like I cannot breathe, my body will forcibly expel the emotions.

My grief is not a delicate thing.  It is not the pretty welling up of tears, dabbing at my eyes, make-up still relatively intact but almost continual visible sadness that makes your heart ache.

No, my grief is violent and painful.  It is periods of numbness punctuated with a keening lamentation of pain.  It is sobbing uncontrollably while driving down the Coquihalla at 90kms an hour, pulling my dead father’s Oldsmobile behind the five ton truck I’m in control of.  It’s the ripping, tearing at my soul of the unfairness of how a man who was so freaking amazing, who touched so many lives just by being him, who brought joy to our lives, had to die so young.   My grief is angry and bitter at the unfairness of it all.

It comes on (it would look from the outside) suddenly, and then just as suddenly, it stops… and waits for the next storm to happen.  Waits for the next build up of pain and sadness to overwhelm me.

This is my grief.  It doesn’t feel normal – but no one knows what’s normal for me… so I’ll just make up my new normal.

I miss you Mark.

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One thought on “How We Cry

  1. Janice says:

    Trust me – you are absolutely normal, for you.

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