– I wish she would just stop crying! – I heard my sister say to my mother.
I don’t know if I was supposed to hear it. Was it a recurrent conversation? Was it meant to be overheard? Was it just an insensitive expression of justified frustration?
I don’t know. I don’t care.
But I did take it on board. Far be it from me to cause inconvenience to anyone consciously.
So I stopped crying. That is, in front of them. Or anyone else other than myself.
Oh, I still cry. Over anything and everything. Songs, poems, novels, movies, choreographies, everything convening human emotions, or the lack thereof, is a potential tearjerker. I find myself crying over slam poetry, a cliché movie, or a book’s happy ending.
Feelings, imagined or real, overwhelm and overtake me, and I only hope that I have the privacy of my room to wallow in self-pity. You see, it’s not that I cry over the injustices of the world, or the misfortunes of likeable characters. More often than not, my tears and hiccups have a selfish reason to surface – my hurt over real, felt, imagined or denied experiences. “I will never get to do this…”, “I will never get to see that…”, and I am reduced to a wet mess.
Oppressed feelings have a tendency to come back and bite you in the arse with a force for trying to deny them for too long. Just admit it, girl. Feelings are better experienced there and then, than trying to bury or ignore them. They are kind of stronger than you are, so why fight a self-defeating battle?