I didn’t cry at my Mum’s funeral. I was 19 years old and she had been just 39 when she died suddenly. Neither of us were old enough for it to happen, but it did.
I don’t remember much about the day, only a few details and the fact that I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry when I arrived at the crematorium. I didn’t cry during the eulogy, I don’t think I even heard it. I didn’t cry when I put my flower on the coffin; the only daisy among the many roses. I whispered goodbye to my mother and walked away with my head held high.
I rarely cried in the months that followed her death. At the depths of my grief I would cry alone, but I wore my stoic public mask as a matter of pride.
Renowned for my ability to stay ‘deadpan’ when facing even the saddest of films, my friends affectionately nicknamed ‘The Robot’. I didn’t like warm hugs. I liked calm and control. I found strength in the wrong places.
I took on too much when supporting others. I repeatedly burned out supporting people who were struggling. I spent far too much money and time trying to heal those around me and ignored my own wounds. I worked too hard.
I set myself on fire again and again to keep other people barely warm.
Through vehemently ignoring my own needs and mistaking rock bottom self worth for strength, I eventually met my abuser.
I won’t go into the details here, but, if you have survived abuse or know someone who has, you might understand what fires of hell I walked through in the period of my life I refer to as ‘The Dark Years’.
I left friends and family by the wayside and put all my energy into trying to fix someone who was repeatedly hurting me to relieve their own pain. I lied over and over again to my friends and family.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m fine’ is a phrase that people use when they are too afraid to say that they are not ok. Nobody has ever used I’m fine correctly. There are hundreds of things I should have said. I didn’t. I didn’t actually speak up until my abuser left and set me free against the odds.
I had always known that my barriers would come down eventually. I thought that I might meet the ‘right person’ and that slowly over time they would help me ease them down.
That isn’t what happened at all. After the abusive relationship broke down, so did the barriers. They came crashing, in fact and, somewhat predictably now that I look back, one particular feeling came flooding out. That feeling was pain.
Waves upon waves of repressed hurt spilled out of me and I couldn’t stop it. There were days of crying; unstoppable sobs that just kept coming. Those days brought a relief of sorts. I was letting out years of tears that had been forced back by mountains of ‘strength’.
I had several breakdowns. Or maybe I had one very long one – it’s unclear. Every time I crumbled I found more effective ways to rebuild. Every time I fell over I stood up taller. Every time I found myself falling apart I put myself back together and it made me finally feel like I was actually alive.
‘The best thing about rock bottom is the rock part. You find the solid bit of you. The bit that can’t be broken down further. The bit that is always there, witnessing every pleasure and every pain. The thing that might be a soul.’
Matt Haig said that. He’s absolutely right. I had hit rock bottom and, in doing so, I had found my foundation.
I started to slowly build, but this time I wasn’t designing my walls to keep my pain inside, I was planning for doors and windows and as many ways as possible to let happiness and people in. I built at first with openness, which brought understanding. Next with compassion, which brought self love. I built with empathy, which brought my family and friends closer than ever. Everything that felt like vulnerability at the time made me stronger.
I learned that crying was an important part of healing. I cried at sad news stories and inspirational speeches and happy endings and kind feedback on social media. I cried when I went to Disney World. I cried when a song moved me. I cried when I finished a book. I cried over and over again for my own pain and eventually I cried for the memory of the Me of the past who couldn’t bring herself to cry.
It’s not that I wasn’t strong before, it’s just that I didn’t know what made me strong and, most importantly, I thought that I needed to express my strength through not crying. I was so wrong.
You don’t express strength by not crying. You don’t need to express it at all. Strength isn’t a feeling, it’s just there.
It doesn’t matter if other people perceive me as strong because I am. It does matter if I neglect to express my pain and if it builds up inside me. Crying is not weak, it is natural. If you need to cry, cry.