A Very Ugly Part of Me
I hardly ever cry. I do have occasional leakage from my lower lids.Just a few drips that spill slowly over the rim’s ridge that I can stall with careful breathing, a flurry of activity and panic hormones. My eyes and tear ducts work. A particularly tender song lyric, a big screen movie image or a
beautifully written story can provoke my terrific appreciation even awe but no more than tiny precipitates from the last wisp of rain. I lack the cleansing rainfall of tears.
Long into menopause now, I recall the discomfort of hormonal fragility. Premenstrual emotions, their raw, leaden heaviness coated in vulnerability. It reminds me of a tentative animal scarred with memory of past abuse. Maybe a gentler look would be an anxiety about a harsh season that lays ahead. I feel ridiculous as I type such melodrama.
This is the pervasive feeling in my body today. I know this comes from fear and
negative thinking. I pray. I stay busy, or at least distracted. Then pray some more. At nearly every step I encounter problem after problem that I have created. The corrections are tedious, sticky and time-consuming. Does the mean I am in the wrong place and time or simply just WRONG?
I do not love the part of me that is glass, chipped with saw toothed edges. A Humpty-Dumpty rocking toward fracture on a ledge. I don’t want to cry the deep crystalline tears of the heart meant only for healing the savage grief of life and death. I want the pain, the prickly beaten-ness, to lift and dissipate. Spilling words, seeing the ugliness eases in lieu of tears.