“Life is like an onion; you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.”  ―Carl Sandburg

It’s been a long time.

I don’t do tears.  Not well.  Not easily.

I need to do tears.

I’ve been peeling the onion for a very long time.  One layer after another.  Until all the layers ran together, couldn’t be pulled apart and I no longer understood or could comprehend the intricacies. Or the associated feelings.

I need to weep.  I need the tears to wash my face.  My soul.  I need the healing purification.  But I’ve forgotten how to cry.  The tears elude me.

“Crying relieves pressure on soul.”
― Toba Beta, Master of Stupidity

The pain is crushing.  I need relief.  But still the tears won’t come.  I am too lost to cry.  Too ashamed to cry.  Ashamed that I still need to cry after all these years.  After all this time.  I’m ashamed that I’m still broken.  I’m so ashamed, so destroyed, I’m numb.

“Crying wasn’t like riding a bike. Give it up, and you quickly forget how it’s done.”
― Alice Hoffman, The Ice Queen

I stopped crying when I was far too young.  I’ve held my tears in for so long, I can no longer remember how to cry.  My tears have dried up.  I’ve forgotten how to cry.

When you hold your emotions back, when you bury them, stifle them, suffocate them, they die.  And suddenly, you find yourself unable to feel.  Anything.

My heart has turned to ice.  And I hate it.

“One by one, drops fell from her eyes like they were on an assembly line – gather, fall, slide…gather, fall, slide…each one commemorating something she had lost. Hope. Faith. Confidence. Pride. Security. Trust. Independence. Joy. Beauty. Freedom. Innocence.”
― Lisi Harrison, Monster High

When I was a child, I used to hide my face in my pillow at night to smother my tears and wipe them away.  I denied them.  Sobbed into the feathers to muffle the sound of my agony. I buried my suffering there.  My despair.

I tried to believe I hadn’t lost my entire life at such a young age.  That everything hadn’t slipped through my fingers before I even started living.  Tried to believe I had a future.

I wanted to believe there was hope.  For me.

How I long to feel again.  How I long to be ripped apart by my emotions.  Even destroyed by them.  Destruction would be better than this.  This purgatory.  This place that is and is not.  The place in between.  Where all that is worth living for and all that is worth weeping over is lost.  This place of the living dead.

It has been a long time since I cried.  I’ve given up on peeling the onion.  It doesn’t touch me any more; doesn’t burn my eyes.  Doesn’t cause my eyes to water. 

No moisture.  No relief.

No hope.

I no longer need to bury my face in my pillow to swallow the agony.  I’ve swallowed it so deeply, it’s untouchable..the pain.  It’s unreachable.  Petrified.  Rotting in my soul.

I thought I had a chance.

I was wrong.

And still, I can’t cry.

“Crying in the rain. No one sees your tears and your pain gets washed away.”
― Elizabeth Bourgeret

How I wish I could cry in the rain.  How I wish I could weep and sob and let the tears wash my pain away.

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