Lesson 30: Let out your tears.

“This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.” – Rumi

Needing “a good cry” today. Oh this journey, this journey through the chasms of my miiiiiind.

Life doesn’t get any easier. She’s gone. Five months later and it’s even less okay than it was at first. She’s gone and I can’t find the magical door I’ve dreamt up that I can walk through to hug her again. I look in the mirror and I see her sometimes: the green eyes, the same nose… but it’s fleeting, because then I stand there… this person with her eternally but without her forevermore.

I remember sitting in the conference room at Mercy Gilbert, staring at a doctor who I will forever remember as “cankles” because I was too angry at her to look at her face. I remember telling her mid staccato-like gapes of breath between cries that I understood that she lacked the ability to offer me hope, but… it. sucked. It. Still. Sucks.

This past month has been emotional, or at least, it should have been. I managed to stuff that emotion somewhere deep inside until I felt I could take a minute to think it through. I’ve neglected to write for the same reason. But “it” never goes away. It grows like a vine around you until it’s got you in a sleeper hold.

It’s okay to cry. My mom would always tell me not to bottle it up. She’d tell me to wait, if possible, and not let the advantageous see me, but in a quiet moment I should take a shower and let it all out in there. I should cry until the tears are gone.

The truth is, I want to scream at the world, right now. I don’t care if anyone hears or sees. My heart is on my sleeve, and the pain is very, very deep. I’m not hope-less and I will be okay, but there is a slice of my heart that is gone, and words can’t heal me, and I think that’s important to me because I don’t want to be healed. I don’t want to ever be “okay” with my mom being gone. I want to let the tears out and know that tomorrow will be a new day–perhaps with a freshly sodium cleansed face–and that I can resume walking with my head held high and a smile on my face.

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