I’m crying in my therapist’s office.
Not tearing up, choked up, actual freaking tears.
This is the 3rd therapist in my 30 years of life that I’ve visited yet the first one that I’ve deemed to actually cry in front of. I hate it.
Crying and I do not have a good relationship, I avoid it at all costs. To see me cry means you’re one my privileged few.
My mother cried in front me.
Deep, heaving sobs. Her mascara would melt away revealing her beautiful face. She would, and does, say that it’s okay to cry. But my mother and I are different. Different beings from different times and places. Crying is her juice fast: cleansing and liberating. She will not hide the tears in her eyes but show them unabashedly to all who are willing to look.
I’ve never seen my Grandmother cry. I’ve never heard her voice even crack with sorrow. Thrice divorced and single parent of 7 she is the woman I have always strived to become like.
At funerals she wears huge dark glasses. When the other mourners get out of control she leaves the room- not to cry- but to tell us it’s time to go. She cries alone, where no one can see or hear her, and will emerge looking stronger, resolute, and determined.
Then there’s me. I who, shies away from tears, allowing them only to be let loose when the dam is near breech. I who, smiles kindly on others who cry openly yet frowns upon herself for doing the same; promises to wear dark glasses at the funerals of those I love and demands that when it is my time to depart that no tears are shed but only laughter and smiles are shared. Yet human I am, slip up and when a tear manages to spill from the my iron eyes, I will them to return into the cistern from whence they have come.
Today I’m sitting in my therapist’s office, mentally between these two women who I love, yet solidly with myself, apologizing for being so emotional over something deeply important to me. I dry my tears as quickly as they have come.-
Take a sip of water to force the lump in my throat to stop being such a nuisance. I take a deep breath as I try to start again and the words I have been long afraid to say out loud come tumbling out. “. . I don’t like a lot of things about myself right now. But I have to learn to accept myself, as I am.”
Just like I have to accept that a little water on my face, this moment of realization, really isn’t going to hurt.
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I’m a mother, a writer, an art lover, a design appreciator, and in my spare time I love to curl up with a book.
I want people to know that even after the worst of experiences there is life after the ickiness and it can filled with as much beauty as you choose.
If you can’t find me here you can reach me at email@example.com.