aka the cry i crode
also i swear i didn't mean to write that much
He looked pale and tired and distant on the screen. I could feel my tears swelling up. I can still remember the stings I felt when the tears crept up and my eyes started to feel so full they could burst. I could feel my stomach rolling into a pit as the pain spiked and my brain fell flat.
He looked tired. and angry. If he were in the room, he would stand up and move further away. He doesn’t want to see my cry. No, not in a cute way. He really, really, didn’t want any of this. He seemed to want to get rid of what was in front of him. It’s like I could hear the so what am I supposed to do in that situation and the I’m not good at this and this is uncomfortable, in a detached, “you are better than this” way.
He looked away and had no word. He went to get some food. I tried to talk through the tears, and I felt stupid. It was embarrassing, it was humiliating, it was isolating. He ate and kept looking at something else, maybe a phone, but I’m not sure. He was angry, annoyed, and disturbed, in a distant, nonchalant way.
He said we should talk about this later.
So I said okay. I cried until morning, and my bedsheet was smudged with blood, tears, and some wine stains.
The day after, nothing happened.
She was angry. annoyed. disturb. She turned to the other side, reached for the phone on the table beside the bed, and pulled the blanket over.
She doesn’t like this. This being me having a mental meltdown from our argument and was then crying screaming whole body unbearably aching from the spasm. I couldn’t breathe, and I was trying to talk about something through the pain. I cannot, for the sake of my life, remember what I was trying to say, but I sure can still feel the pain in my abdomen. Eyes blurred with tears and brain fog. I saw her back and I knew her eyes were closed. I guess it helped her not have to hear me somehow. And I knew she was deeply disturbed. She hated all of this; she wanted to get rid of what was behind her back.
I cried and screamed for another half an hour. Then I washed my face, tried to pull the acid reflux out of my throat, brushed my teeth, and slept on the couch.
The day after, nothing happened.
To be honest with you, to this day, I still have no idea what actually happened in her brain when the cries happened. Was she annoyed and didn’t know how to console me? Was she out of words? Was she confused? Was she just disassociating? Was she so disgusted that she didn’t even want to acknowledge that the whole thing was real? Was it because of my snorts? or was it just disgusting as a phenomenon in general? I honestly have no idea. I honestly sometimes feel like the whole thing was just a bunch of made-up nightmares. So in the same train of thoughts, I honestly don’t know what he had in his brain that day. Was it actually how I interpreted it? Was it actual disgust? Was it actual anger? Was it a translation of feeling attacked and feeling the guilt? Was it just a denial of reality and the need to get rid of that sticky, annoying, disturbing situation? Was it even real? Was I even real? I simply, honestly don’t even know.
He was horrified. Yes, not yet disgusted, just horrified. He was scruffing away from my blood and tears and snorts. I was on the floor trying to throw up, but the tears kept getting in the way. He didn’t expect any of these, and he sure as hell hated every minute of this. Too much snorting, I thought. He tried to wash the blood away from his hand, but I thought to myself that he was washing me away. It was ridiculous to my brain because it should be reversed.
I was screaming, I think. But now that I try to trace back, I didn’t hear any screams. I wonder if it was real or if it was a fabricated illusion of me again. But I did feel my throat screeching and burning. Was it the tears? Was it the acid reflux? Was it a bug? Was it raw milk? Was it my scream? I can’t tell.
I remember he ran out of the door as soon as he got most of me out of his hand. He didn’t even look back—on the floor, I mean. As if there was in fact absolutely nothing on that floor. But the floor was cold, and my tears were scorching hot I felt my eyes burn, and my vomit smelled like strong zero. I don’t think I had a strong zero. I don’t even think I know strong zero at that point in life. See, that’s what I’ve been saying, like, how do you know it was real?
The next day, nothing happened except for the fact that I think I missed 3 appointments.
So yes, the day after, nothing happened.
They stepped through my limped body to get to the window. At that point, I had already passed the screaming part, so lucky for them, they didn’t have to experience that. I was still snorting, tears felt like tremors in my skull. My hands were tucked in behind my back in an awkward, uncomfortable way, trying to hide the black ribbon away. I was stained all over with a mixture of Vaseline, blood, tears, snorts, throat syrup, and black tea.
One of them looked at me. There’s that horrified, disturbed look. It quickly turned into anger. The type of anger that seemed both irrational and heroic. I can’t explain it. But it was like a tight rope, I tried to reach for it. But then they moved very quickly all over the room, and I felt the obligation to leave. But I couldn’t. I was frozen. I might still be in that freeze all those years. How would I know, right?
They stepped over my feet 3 times. I counted. The Woman rushed in and saw me. Disgust, horrified, angered, disturbed. She looked out the window. All the ropes, the ribbon, the veil, the whole shenanigans.
And they take it all away. All of her. All of me. I never see that window ever again in my life.
I woke up the next day still stained all over with Vaseline, blood, throat syrup, and black tea. But I guessed tears evaporated.
Nothing really happened.
I sometimes wonder if I ever really did cry or if it was all just very, very bad dreams.
I was 12, 15, 17, 21. What do I really know?
Somehow I got better at crying. Along the way, I even lose the screaming and snorting and just cry with barely any sound. and maybe just adding some tiny hiccups. Demure and elegant, I’d like to tell myself so.
Again, maybe it was all just bad dreams.
–
Maybe I over-vilified them, you know? When I looked back after all the over-analyzing the defensiveness, the trying to justify both sides, the over-explanation of my feelings and their feelings, all that left in me was the confusion of what actually happened. I am confused about the reality, the emotional turmoils that I went through, the validity of my thoughts and my feelings, the nature of this whole reflection. Maybe my brain after the workload decides to paint them in a much worse, much more vigilante version of the reality. Maybe because of my own assumption, I brought more pain and confusion to my already confused and painful state. Maybe I’m overthinking this whole thing all over again.
–
I understand the sentiment of feeling like you are not enough, like you are being attacked by the visceral reaction to the pain you caused. See, I think I might get it. I might not actually. But I understand the discomfort toward emotional vulnerability; I understand the unknowing guilt and shame; I understand the feeling of helplessness, of inadequacy; I understand the emotional overload; I understand the potential misunderstanding of my crying intentions; I understand the fear; and I understand the stress. I understand the anger. I understand the distress. I understand the disassociation. I understand the innocence. I understand the confusion. I understand the horrifying. I understand the attachment and the detachment. I understand the coldness. I understand the annoyance. I understand the rush, the need to get away from the situation. I understand.
But, where does the love go? Where did you put it? Did it also evaporate? Because I don’t understand that. Actual confusion. Where do I put it now?
So it might actually be the truth, that I never really cried at all, that it was just years of bad dreams of mine.
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