Let Me Cry In Peace

[Rita Williams 6]

> “You are not a baby,” people say, staring with annoyance at my somewhat childishness.

I suppose I am still childish. I still cry—privately, of course—rarely in public.

When I get reprimanded for a thing or two, my heart beats faster. My tear ducts work even faster, producing tears so rapidly.

But I cannot cry. So I try to stop the tears from falling. I scrunch up my nose in extreme discomfort when it stings, my eyes red and pooling with liquid from the held-back emotion.

I suppose I am still childish.

When I don’t get the expected results from a project I worked so hard on, my mind races—and so, to my despair, do my tear ducts.

But I cannot cry. So I bear the sting in my nose, the heaviness in my chest, and my never-calm thoughts as I hold back my tears.

But why can’t I cry?

Why must I hold back my tears, deny my body its natural response, just so I can be perceived as “grown”?

Why must I carry the sting, the weight, the racing thoughts, and the repressed emotions?

Why must I care if people think I’m childish?

If emotional numbness and forced stoicism define adulthood, then I’d rather remain childish forever.

I’m tired—tired of the sting, the weight, the everything—that could be eased if I just broke the dam and let the water flow.

When I cry, I feel refreshed. My problems don’t disappear, but at least I get to feel better.

I don’t want to hold back anymore.
I don’t want the sting in my nose or the weight on my chest.

So I’ll cry. I’ll cry until my tear ducts give out.
I’ll cry even if people find it annoying.
I’ll cry even if it means being called a child.

Because it’s my feeling, and I’ll feel it fully.