The time I couldn't stop crying

Now that I know how to do it though, I don't ever want it to stop...

It was a dark and stormy night; the kind of night they write about in really good horror stories. The clouds were thick and heavy in the evening sky, and rolling in from all corners of the earth.

I was about halfway through my daily walk, and I was listening to my Ultimate 80s playlist on Pandora, when the clouds broke and poured large round raindrops down on the sidewalk.

I don’t remember what song was playing but I remember it jarred me out of the daze I’d got into…

And within moments, I was crying uncontrollably and terrified that every passerby could see (and hear) the sobs that escaped my throat.

I’d been struggling a lot in therapy. Like, a lot a lot. (Or is it a lot a lot?) I don’t know. Suffice it to say, it was… rather an ordeal…

We’d been digging deep into all my memories from the war, and from 9/11, and all the guilt I still struggle with over having left the Navy when my enlistment was up…

And I guess I just couldn’t keep it all in, any longer.

I had to get my feelings out.

Even if it meant sobbing hysterically on the sidewalk while countless cars were passing me by, all filled with drivers on their evening commute, who I was certain were all staring at me, wondering what on earth could possibly be wrong with this stranger who clearly doesn’t belong in Texas, where real men don’t cry… (or do they?)

But I couldn’t help myself. I needed to cry, and my mind wasn’t going to give up until I let it out.

It shocked me how quickly and easily it came on. After all, I’ve been bottling everything up since I was probably seventeen… and I didn’t know how to let things come out.

But when I started crying that night, I knew I couldn’t stop it. The floodgates were open and it was time for everything to come pouring out.

When I got close to home, I was still crying, though perhaps not quite as hard. I called a friend, who thankfully was able to talk me through it all. And I got home, went inside my apartment, took off my wet clothes and took a long shower, and then went to bed, grateful that the day was over and I’d somehow managed to survive such a public spectacle.

I woke up the next morning and the tears started again.

I thought I was losing my mind, at first. But the tears came, and went, and came, and went, and I finally started to realize that sooner or later, the tears always run out, and at least I get a nice calm before the next storm.

I was still scared, though, that if I could start crying in the middle of my walk, what if I started crying other places? Like at church, or in a restaurant, or hanging out with a friend? I couldn’t have that. So I secluded myself in my apartment until I could get a handle on this whole spontaneous crying thing. (Which, by the by, I still don’t have a handle on… but I can’t keep hiding in my apartment forever.)

I shared all this with my therapist in our next session and it’s almost like she was relieved? Like she’d been waiting for me to turn on the emotions, and let them flow, so I can learn to experience them all and ultimately, to just allow them to exist. (I don’t know what that’s about… the way I grew up men aren’t supposed to even have emotions…)

We worked out a plan where I could sit with my emotions every morning, for a set amount of time, without judgment and ultimately, without reservation. And every morning, I sat and I sobbed in my apartment while I allowed all my pent-up emotions to come out and play.

At first I thought I was gonna need to call a crisis hotline, my emotions were so overwhelming.

Every tear, every sob, every whimper, was as traumatic as the memory that caused it. For a long time I was convinced all I was doing was making things worse, because now all the feelings I’d kept bottled up were out in the open — but not one of them was actually getting resolved.

It was a real freakshow. I felt like I was being haunted every morning by the memories of all the things I’d never been “man” enough to deal with, and I was terrified those memories were going to consume me.

At first, I couldn’t even identify the different feelings that came out each morning. Everything was twisted and tangled together. And every feeling made me cry uncontrollably. For an hour.

On the bright side, that much crying is a real workout! I think I lost ten pounds in the month that I sat and cried each morning. (Crying burns a lot of calories!)

As I write this newsletter, I’m crying. And it’s still scary and it still hurts and it’s still embarrassing as all get out…

But over the last month I’ve cried so much, I’ve released years, if not decades worth of pent-up emotion, that this whole time has just been tearing me apart inside. And all that emotional pain is just — gone. Never to return.

And as a disabled veteran, who spent 20 years of my life convinced that things will never improve… that my life will always feel empty, and pointless, and meaningless…

For me to let go of that much pain…

I’m like a completely different person. Even if I can never let go of everything (because maybe, what if, somethings really are just too hard to overcome?)… even if I never let go of everything, I’ve already let go of so much…

My body feels lighter, my mind feels clearer, my heart feels freer, than I remember ever feeling before. I have scientific evidence now, in the sheer number of Kleenex I’ve used this month, that some things can be faced, and worked through, and released…

And I can make room in my heart and my mind for new things, that I thought because of my disabilities, I would never get to experience again.

My whole life is changing. My future is opening up. Old wounds are being healed. New habits are being formed.

I’m on the precipice of having all the things I’ve ever wanted, and always told myself I can never have.

All because I finally learned — the very, very hard way — the simple act of allowing myself to cry over things that actually hurt me.

I never cried when all the things happened to me, 10 or 20 or even 30 years ago… I thought crying was weakness and something strong men just don’t do.

I’m learning, now, that my emotions (and my ability to finally express them) are what make me strong, and that every time I cry, I emerge stronger on the other end than I ever was when I wore the uniform of a United States Sailor.

(And, bonus: now that I’m not holding everything in all the time… I’m actually starting to enjoy life… even as a disabled 47-year-old veteran with PTSD and a bad back.)