When I was younger, I never allowed myself to cry in front of people.
Whenever I was in pain, I concealed my tears from everybody, even my mm and father. Instead, I just released my tears without anyone else, covered in pillows and covers. I usually yearned for comfort in times of dire need since crying without anyone else’s support was debilitating.
In my family, you just cried about specific things (for example loss and death). My parents instructed me crying was for the feeble. I didn’t need anybody calling me frail; I must be solid. I attempted to create thicker skin in my high school years, yet stifling my feelings drove me crazy and restless. It wasn’t as of not long ago, I found I was awkward with powerlessness.
When you cry, you are powerless, you are weak.
I have never felt happy with trusting anybody to see me and love me in that defenseless spot, yet I hungered for solace and approval. I concede I am sensitive. Truth be told, I completely trust I was brought into the world that way, sensitive and inventive, a glaring difference from my kin. My mom never comprehended why I was “so darn emotional” and “crazy.” I wished to communicate my feelings totally; my dread of crying was more important than my dread of lashing out.
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