Dang it, crying AGAIN!
I am not good at emotions. For a long time, I hid from them. I retreated to my basement (physically and metaphorically) and escaped from having to feel anything. There was a moment in my life when I was faced with the option of either feeling them and dealing with them or exploding. My sister was diagnosed with her cancer recurrence. there was no other options for treatment. It was nearing Christmas, and I was planning a trip down to see her. I would be with my Dad and all my siblings. I realized that I don’t know how to just ‘BE’. I was so used to faking emotions and hiding from real emotions, I didnt know how to be real with my family. I was scared and already missing my sister, but I didn’t want to feel that. I needed to.
The cork came off the bottle like a rocket. Tears flodded my eyes as the smell of the nectar inside assaulted my nose. My heart paused briefly in anticipation. My skin prickled. My breath quickened. My lips ran dry. I knew what was inside the bottle. I had seen it before. It was raw. It was bitter. It was delightful. It was painful. It was emotion. All my emotions. Unfortuantely, to address this new fear, I would have to open them all. Out they came. The whirled around my head, my heart, my soul. They taunted me, they comforted me, they beat my with a stick. I cried. I bawled like a baby, unable to hold it back. I couldn’t talk. I was in a group of 20 or so people I hardly knew. I cried. I cried. I cried. I felt a hand on my back. No words were spoken. Nothing. Just a nonverbal touch that said, “Been there, done that, and I am here. I am not going anywhere.”
That was several years ago. I tried to expres my emotions since then. I explored my head and heart vigorously. I thought I had left no stone unturned. Then it hit. Reality of a stone left unbothered. I lifted it like a kid exploring the backyard in summer. The bug scurried underneath, hiding from the light. The ground was cold to the touch. It was fetid. I knew I would have to dig. I would have to chase the bugs of discontent, restlessness, and irritability. I would have to address this spoiled spot in the garden of my soul. I fought against it. I didn’t want to do it. I knew I had to, but I had uncorked the bottle before and it hurt. I flung the rock over in a show of strength. I stired the sand with my finger. I hoped the airated sand would take care of itself. It didn’t. I have begun to dig. I know that I might never find all the bugs. I know the ground might always stink. But, I keep digging. The emotions attack me once again. I can feel the pain, the insults, the isolation. I hurt. I cry. I cry, I cry.
The difference this time? I know that the comforting hand is God.