Postcard #47: Home is the Safest Place to Cry

There is no greater healing balm than the comfort of bed. I spend many of my days there lately, simply over being sad, nothing more.  The days have grown dark.  There is much dying and dead.

And everyday the deeper the dread.

Not because the end of the world is nigh!  Nor does the upcoming Winter Solstice bode for me any significance that the world will end.  It just means another world transition, but a time of anxiety for a great many people lost out there in a world far from me.

I am quite comfortable to keep my problems and tears confined to my little place.  My tiny disasters mean nothing to the pains of others.  When I was a child, I had been told to keep my cries hidden, quiet down, become invisible, and shut-up-right-THIS-MINUTE else anyone should think somethin’s was wrong with me and all the other kids were not to speak to me until I stopped crying.  If I accidentally slipped out a sob in public, I’d face punishment at home and in school, not allowed to speak or be spoken to, and be the first to go to bed early.  After awhile I learned to appreciate being alone because it meant I could write and draw, create an interior world for myself other kids didn’t have.  As I became an adult, I worried and wondered why I never outgrew my “crying fits”.  At odd moments I’d cry, people become afraid, or they make a fuss over me, to this day no one knows how to help.  So, like me, you learn how to help yourself.  You take yourself home and sink into bed and hope for a long sleep to take the pressure off.  Plus today the therapy and meds go a long way, of course!

Many friends would be upset to know how often I cry, or they will be annoyed.  “There she goes again,” I can feel them roll their eyes and the ridicule drives a splinter into my gut, because I have been through the accusations of manipulation several times before.  Even in childhood I was accused of crying for attention, adults slapping me away and ordering me to go to my room, telling my mother not to bring “your daughter along” because I brought the other children down.  And no matter what I did then, as now, the more I explain, the worse it gets, my words do nothing to convince people I’ll ever get better, or that I’ll remain worse, it comes and goes in waves.

I am a constant shifting, blowing, raining, storming sky, a force of nature.  Not unhealthy, powerful, not dangerous, just interesting to handle, strong when I’m weak, and equally sensitive and nice at peace.  There are times when I don’t think I’m ill at all.  Normal most of the time, and yet…

In the darkness, just when I take off my shoes and drop myself on the floor for a weep…

It is good to know, someone stopped by, left a note, emailed a message, called, or better yet sent me a little something in the mail.

Even in a city where so many people abound, there are not enough smiles or kind thoughts expressed.  The pressures of not-being-home where ever you are when you’re not “here” can make you catch your death.  The loneliness builds like the end song tempting you away from bed into the grave.

Better to lie in bed than in the grave.  Catch me?


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