I remember when I was growing up, being afraid of making the wrong response to something I'd been told. Specifically, when someone had been hurt, or had passed away. When Mom would tell me about things like that, I'd find myself having to choke back what sounded like snickers of laughter.
I didn't think death and injury were funny -- not at all! But I don't think I knew quite how to grieve. I believe it was probably because I was indoctrinated with the falsehood that 'big girls don't cry' from a very early age.
I remember getting shots; vaccinations or antibiotics, it didn't matter, I wasn't supposed to make a fuss because big girls don't cry. I was four or five.
I had my first spinal fusion around that same time. It was the first time I remember being in a hospital and separated from my parents. I was being stuck and poked and prodded, but I wasn't supposed to shed a tear, because big girls don't cry.
I had a heart catheterization -- an invasive diagnostic procedure in which the patient remains awake -- but I was supposed to be quiet and lie still in an operating room full of strangers, and let the doctor stick me with a huge hypodermic needle in the leg and do other scary things, because big girls don't cry.
A few weeks fter that, they had to threaten me with a straight jacket and still have two nurses hold me down to take out the stitches from the hernia repair they did after they knocked me out to sew me up after the cath... and afterwards my mom told me I was being a big baby. Big girls don't cry... or throw tantrums.
Another spinal fusion when I was ten, and the mother of the girl in the bed next to me told me that I should grow up and not cry, because it was making things harder on my parents. Big girls don't cry and give their parents guilt trips.
Is it any wonder I turned into the little stoic I was, and didn't know how to cry when I was supposed to? Instead, I'd fight back those horrid snickers that came unbidden, when tears were acceptable, or turn toward the wall and fight the tightness in my throat and the stinging in my eyes when they were not.
I don't remember crying when my (great) grandmother died of cancer right around my ninth birthday. I don't remember crying when Mom said Jim wasn't coming back, or later when his brother called to say he'd passed away. I only cried when I was finally locked away safe in the bathroom while my Mom went out and buried one of my cats four years ago.
The river of tears has been undammed since then, but sometimes now it overflows at very inopportune times. I'm still very very selective of whom I allow to see me cry... Jev is really the only one I trust that much, and when I do it's still usually at the worst times. But I'm learing to let go of that need for control... slowly.
Alone with my thoughts, I can grieve freely, just as I cried for Jim a few months ago, and again tonight. With Jev, I can express my sorrow over other things... fear, loss, ordinary sadness.
I still have a difficult time allowing Mom to see tears, and I imagine it would be as hard, if not harder, with Julie. Maybe it's not a bad thing to hide tears from starngers, but you'd think it would be safe enough to let family see. So I guess I still have more letting go to do. At least I'm starting to realize the areas that need work.
If anyone ever told you that big girls or big boys don't cry, think again. It's okay to cry... you have my word on it. It may even make you feel better; especially if there's someone you can trust to lend you a shoulder.
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