25 years have been and gone since I last cried. Not from a lack of wanting to, or a lack of reason to and I’m sure I’m biologically capable of crying, but quarter of a century has elapsed without tears.
There have been plenty of times where I have closed my eyes and fantasised about crying. I picture myself crumpled on the floor in a heap, messily clutching myself with tears flowing uncontrollably. I visualise the emotion just pouring out of me, the pain, the hurt, the anguish being exorcised. I dream of the cathartic release of those tears – not that I picture it freeing me of my depression, far from it. It’s just that sometimes the emotions need somewhere to go, a way of truly acknowledging them and working through them.
But the tears don’t come. On occasion I’ve curled up on the bed, alone, and tried to force it. It never works.
Is it the ‘big boys don’t cry’ mentality? Is it the distant memory of the pain felt the last time I cried when I was just a teenager? Perhaps I’m scared of the vulnerability. There have been times that I’ve felt close to tears and I’ve fought them back only to berate myself afterwards for fighting against the very thing I’m looking for. Maybe I have forgotten how or fear the loss of control it implies.
I do fear that the lack of tears means I’m simply burying the emotions and that they will bite me at a later date – or perhaps are already biting me. The urge to cry is not constant and I don’t feel anywhere near my worst at the moment but the desire does still come back.
What it means and why it is, I don’t know, but one day I hope to allow the tears to flow. Welcoming the vulnerability, embracing the loss of control, being free.