In the darkest of times, it was a rarity to see mom cry. Or grandma. And I don't recall ever seeing my dad cry. Maybe he did at mom's funeral, but at that moment his feelings was the last thing on my mind. There were times growing up, though, when mom and dad had been fighting; you know, the really ugly fighting. Where you didn't step foot outside of your room, didn't breathe, didn't make a sound because in those moments you didn't want to do anything to direct that anger towards you. I would tiptoe to my brothers room, and we'd sit on his bed in silence, our young bodies filled with tension and fear and helplessly listened to the screaming. Hours and hours of screaming.
Sometimes, in the late hours of the night after a day of screaming, I would wake up to the sound of Tracy Chapman pouring out of the stereo speakers. Baby Can I Hold You, in case you're wondering. I can still hear the song, every word...the lyrics of heartache filled the room as a woman slow danced by herself in the living room, in the middle of the night, and cried.
Crying developed into something that made you weak, something that you should hide, something you should be ashamed of. As my dad said, "Crying is for pussies." Thanks for the advice, dad, it's done wonders for me.
I've cried a few times during all of this cancer crap, more than I probably have in the last ten years. Over the weekend, it was bad. Really, really, bad. I just couldn't get myself together. In two spots, my incisions aren't healing quite like the rest of it, where it made me question if it might be getting infected. And that was it, I lost my grip completely. I have said before that surgery and healing is the scariest part of the this for me, and I wasn't lying. It terrifies me to my core. So much so that the second I saw those two spots, I just couldn't stop crying. Or almost crying. Or spending the entire moment trying to suck it all in and bury it deep down. All I could hear in my head was "Get that shit under control, you pussy." Thanks, dad...
Sunday, while my husband and son were at church, I spent the entire time just bawling in my bathroom. Because I had to take a shower, and see these ugly, open wounds. I sat there, bawling, on my knees, begging God to heal my wounds. Then I would audibly tell myself to "Stop it. Stop. Crying." Eventually, my poor husband had to help calm me down. Again. Reassuring me that everything was okay. That it would be okay. That it was okay to cry. I didn't in the moment know how to tell him how I felt, like I had exceeded my crying quota already, that it wasn't okay to cry because crying just...Is. Not. Okay. I don't know how, but he pieced me back together. Again. I felt that my wounds would end up okay, but it wasn't okay to be crying about it. That made me weak, a baby, that I wasn't trusting God to take care of me. I'm a weak, faithless, baby. That is what I was thinking, but didn't know how to say.
Yesterday I was walking on the treadmill, at a snails pace (insanely frustrating mind you), and listening to praise music on my phone. Very different than the usual ghetto fly music I'd be pumping into my ears while exercising. And I know this will sound, well, it'll make me sound like one of those holy roller whack job types. You know, totally the image I'm going for. But I'm just strolling along on the treadmill like an old lady, and I'd swear I heard clear as someone stood next me say "Even Jesus cried."
I know in most ways Jesus is depicted as a gentle, loving, caring face that you'll see chillin with sheep and some cute kid sitting on his knee. But I've always pictured him a little more badass than that. I mean just look at some of the things he endured! There's no way, no way, he could have gone through with it if he was a total sheep huggin softy. There had to be an element of badass to his persona. And yet, this man, who went through incredible suffering for some idiot like me, this man, the strongest of the strong...even Jesus cried. It was right there, in that moment, that I finally learned that it is okay to cry. It is okay to feel and show pain. It doesn't make me a cry baby, make me weak, or make me unfaithful. It doesn't "make me" anything. It just means, I'm scared. I'm hurting. And for that moment, can't hold it in, and I don't have to. After 40 years, I finally get it. It's okay for me to cry sometimes, because even Jesus cried. And he was perfect.
I wish there was a way for me to go back, to tell my mom all of this, so maybe it would in some way fix her. Or save me from being broken in that way. I wish I could have held her while she cried, instead of only being able to hide in the hallway; watching this poor, broken woman, believing she wasn't worthy of love. But I remember the last time her broken heart lead her to play Tracy Chapman once more when we were older. Only this time, as she slow danced in the living room, my brother danced with her. There she was, in the arms of a man that loved her, and he thought her worthy of love. I took a Polaroid of it, my brother hated that picture every time he saw it. I think because he saw a tall, thin, nerdy looking teenager dancing with his mom. But to me, it is still one of my favorite pictures for so many reasons. I wish I could tell her what I finally learned.
Does that mean I'm going to turn into some giant sobbing mess all the time? Yeah, probably not. But, should a single tear, or several, happen to slip out, you won't ever hear me apologize for it again. Because I'm not sorry, because I don't have to be sorry for it, because it's not wrong. There's no shame to be found in it, and nothing that should be hidden. I get it now...I get it....
Comments
Post a Comment