Bragging Rights. (LJ CUT DOESN'T WORK FOR ME....SORRY)
When I was 16, I used to boldly claim that I had somehow lost my ability to cry. I would shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes at any who didn't believe my claims that while I was not necessarily devoid of the strong emotion that is profound sorrow, I remained somehow incapable of revealing it through tears.
Today, just driving past a certain exit on the highway triggered something inside of me and sent me back to a place of raw emotion. Where my stomach hit the bottom of my shoes, which were currently engaged in pushing the gas pedal as hard as possible (as if I thought fleeing the green sign would cure me of my sudden onslaught of feelings) and my heart rammed against the walls of my ribcage. And as I sped by the other cars going a mere anything-below-100mph, I white-knuckle grip the steering wheel to prevent the tears from streaming down my face.
Call it feminine hormones.
Call it an inappropriate reaction to painted number on a green, metal sign.
Call it, label it, name it whatever the hell you want.
When I was 16, I used to try and force myself to cry. I would sit in my room and think of the darkest, sickest, most depraved things I could, all in an attempt to trigger some undiscovered lever that would usher the tears into the pink ducts, filling them until they could hold no more. A certain button covered in cobwebs and dust that I had simply overlooked, and if I continued searching I would eventually stumble across it. And then I would push it and every tear I had ever wanted to cry would come pouring out of some hidden pipe. I wanted so desperately for release of some kind that I would search for ways to induce crying spells. Yet nothing would work, and if I managed to get even one stupid, salty droplet out of my eye, it still would never be satisfying.
And now...if I see a bit of green ink...I can bawl my eyes out if I'm not careful.
If I think of a certain winter weekend in February I have to duck my face and excuse myself from the current conversation.
If I hear just the right combination of syllables, I am transported.
And my memories whisk me away to a place where my body is completely overtaken. I am no longer in control. The tears consume me and if I don't get a grip on some sort of reality I slip into another universe. A universe where the only thing that matters is getting everything out--purging myself of the past, yet knowing I can never fully be rid of it.
I would never want to be fully rid of it.
When I was 16, I thought I was old.
I thought I was clever and wise. I thought I knew better than everyone who tried to tell me differently. When I was 16, I was young and naive.
That is why I used to brag about not being able to cry. I thought it made me strong.
I was wrong.
My ability to never cry didn't come from anything--it came from a lacking. I lacked the experiences that caused me to feel physically sick. The moments that drained me of coherent thought and rational being.
One must be in the most horrifying, excruciating pain of their existence in order to cry...and cry with any meaning. Your soul has to burn and your body has to wrack with invisible monsters that crawl all over your skin and bone and teeth and nails and hair and feet and entrails and muscle. You have to bleed from the daggers that another person has jabbed in your back. You have to have screamed out the name of the person who tormented with no mercy and a smile upon his face.
You have to bleed.
You have to hurt.
You have to suffer.
And then, you have to know and accept that you could, at any given time, go through that same kind of searing, stabbing pain again.
That is why one cries with true abandonment. Why we hear tales of people tearing at hair and clothes as they fall to their knees.
And so now, when I hear those people make the same claims I once did, I both pity and envy them.
I feel pity, because this person has yet to know the greatest relief to the greatest pains they’ll experience.
And yet I still envy them…because chances are…they’ve yet to experience the greatest pain of their life. Yes they’ve been hurt, but they haven’t had the pain administered forcefully, cruelly, unnecessarily.
But chances are, knowing this world, someday they will.
Today, just driving past a certain exit on the highway triggered something inside of me and sent me back to a place of raw emotion. Where my stomach hit the bottom of my shoes, which were currently engaged in pushing the gas pedal as hard as possible (as if I thought fleeing the green sign would cure me of my sudden onslaught of feelings) and my heart rammed against the walls of my ribcage. And as I sped by the other cars going a mere anything-below-100mph, I white-knuckle grip the steering wheel to prevent the tears from streaming down my face.
Call it feminine hormones.
Call it an inappropriate reaction to painted number on a green, metal sign.
Call it, label it, name it whatever the hell you want.
When I was 16, I used to try and force myself to cry. I would sit in my room and think of the darkest, sickest, most depraved things I could, all in an attempt to trigger some undiscovered lever that would usher the tears into the pink ducts, filling them until they could hold no more. A certain button covered in cobwebs and dust that I had simply overlooked, and if I continued searching I would eventually stumble across it. And then I would push it and every tear I had ever wanted to cry would come pouring out of some hidden pipe. I wanted so desperately for release of some kind that I would search for ways to induce crying spells. Yet nothing would work, and if I managed to get even one stupid, salty droplet out of my eye, it still would never be satisfying.
And now...if I see a bit of green ink...I can bawl my eyes out if I'm not careful.
If I think of a certain winter weekend in February I have to duck my face and excuse myself from the current conversation.
If I hear just the right combination of syllables, I am transported.
And my memories whisk me away to a place where my body is completely overtaken. I am no longer in control. The tears consume me and if I don't get a grip on some sort of reality I slip into another universe. A universe where the only thing that matters is getting everything out--purging myself of the past, yet knowing I can never fully be rid of it.
I would never want to be fully rid of it.
When I was 16, I thought I was old.
I thought I was clever and wise. I thought I knew better than everyone who tried to tell me differently. When I was 16, I was young and naive.
That is why I used to brag about not being able to cry. I thought it made me strong.
I was wrong.
My ability to never cry didn't come from anything--it came from a lacking. I lacked the experiences that caused me to feel physically sick. The moments that drained me of coherent thought and rational being.
One must be in the most horrifying, excruciating pain of their existence in order to cry...and cry with any meaning. Your soul has to burn and your body has to wrack with invisible monsters that crawl all over your skin and bone and teeth and nails and hair and feet and entrails and muscle. You have to bleed from the daggers that another person has jabbed in your back. You have to have screamed out the name of the person who tormented with no mercy and a smile upon his face.
You have to bleed.
You have to hurt.
You have to suffer.
And then, you have to know and accept that you could, at any given time, go through that same kind of searing, stabbing pain again.
That is why one cries with true abandonment. Why we hear tales of people tearing at hair and clothes as they fall to their knees.
And so now, when I hear those people make the same claims I once did, I both pity and envy them.
I feel pity, because this person has yet to know the greatest relief to the greatest pains they’ll experience.
And yet I still envy them…because chances are…they’ve yet to experience the greatest pain of their life. Yes they’ve been hurt, but they haven’t had the pain administered forcefully, cruelly, unnecessarily.
But chances are, knowing this world, someday they will.