I hate to cry. I cry when I’m happy, or sad, or mad. I cry during television commercials. I cry when something stirs my emotions, and my emotions are easily stirred. I thought tears were a sign of weakness.
This created problems because I’m empathic. I feel others’ pain. It took me years to come to terms with this part of my character. As I grew older, I erected safeguards. There were movies I couldn’t watch, books I wouldn’t read. It bothered me when things didn’t turn out “right.” I wanted to change the unhappy endings. Maybe that’s when I started reconstructing stories.
There are some things that cannot be changed. No matter how I might wish it so, there is no rewriting the ending of my son’s life.
Tears became a daily part of my life. I’d shed morning tears in the privacy of my shower. They were quiet, reflective tears, filled with the regret and agony of losing my son.
At the end of my work day, my defenses were gone. On the drive home, the storm which rumbled within would erupt. I shed hot, bitter tears. There were times I’d turn up the radio to drown out the sound of my own sobs.
I’ve learned there is no weakness in tears.
Grief devours from within. It stripped me of all those carefully crafted barriers and left me vulnerable.
Writing was stuffed in the trunk of my car as I battled to get through the day, and celebrated that small victory.
The first tottering step on my journey is this blog. By participating, I am forcing myself to write, at least every other week. I sit down at my computer and produce structured musings. For now, for this month, it will be enough. In the coming weeks I will begin to set writing goals.
The process of getting up is daunting, but… I’ve learned I am strong even when I’m weak. I’m working to get up.