Learning How To Cry Again

Feelings are more than something to fear

Photo by Christian Gunn on Unsplash

My mother-in-law passed away three days ago. When she got really ill, my husband booked a ticket to be at her side in the hospital. Sadly, she was gone before he even made it on the plane.

My husband is a musician, so he has been processing things that way, listening to favorite albums he and his mother shared. He’s looked at old pictures and told stories from when he was little. His tears flow freely the entire time, helping his body relax and affording him some rest.

Meanwhile, I felt like such a jerk for not being able to express my sadness in sympathy with his. I worried that my husband thought I was unfeeling and uncaring, but he didn’t know the whole story then.

I can’t cry because of my psych medications mixed with lifelong trauma.

Well, I should correct that a bit. I can almost cry. My heart feels heavy, and my body swells with sadness and grief. It feels very intense and almost scares me. That’s where it stops, though. The tears never fully come.

Growing up in an abusive household has caused me to dissociate since I was a tiny girl of five. Of course, I didn’t know what that meant until I finally read about it in my fifties. Unfortunately, I still have a hell of a freeze response, and it’s my standard go-to when something upsetting happens.

Dissociating feels like disappearing, and it is in a certain way. I’m no longer in the room. My emotions are blank. I don’t cry when it’s called for. Sometimes I feel like some sort of zombie. I’ve had more people call me “fake” than I can count. They don’t understand that it’s self-preservation that I learned at a young age to keep me safe in bad situations.

I also started taking medication for major depression in 1998, and I have been on it ever since for repeated episodes. Other medications have been added on over the years and make me feel like a walking pharmacy sometimes. If there are any other side effects, I don’t notice them anymore, but not being able to cry seems like not being able to smile or laugh or sing or dance.

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We lost our family dog back in 2015. Her name was Beauty. She was a much older dog and had various health problems. Eventually, the time came where we had to put her to sleep. A nurse came to our house, and we all surrounded her with blankets and soft light. By the time she gave Beauty the injection, my husband and young daughter were sobbing. I was petting Beauty and whispering to her as she took her last breaths, but my eyes were dry.

“Mom,” my daughter asked after the nurse left. “I didn’t see you crying. Why didn’t you cry?”

The numbness felt wrong. Like my body forgot how to match my heart’s pain. I didn’t know how to answer the question.

“I’m very sad about Beauty,” I told her. “I’m sure I will cry later.”

I never did.

Although I knew it wasn’t really my fault, I beat myself up over my lack of tears time and time again. Sometimes, it actually hurt inside not to be able to cry. The misery would just build up inside me to the point where I begged to be able to let the sadness out.

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In desperation, there have been times I’ve turned to YouTube for help, as crazy as that sounds. When I absolutely need to cry, I’ll watch the saddest movie scenes I can think of that I know will wreck me, just to feel the release. Two of my favorites are Kramer Vs. Kramer where Meryl Streep lets Dustin Hoffman keep their son and also Stepmom where the family is saying goodbye to Susan Sarandon on Christmas.

I’m sort of ashamed that I just can’t cry naturally and appropriately. I have thought about going off all medication, but back in the 90s, my psychiatrist told me that if I ever stopped I would probably try to kill myself. It sounded extreme at the time, but I never wanted to take a chance and discontinue them.

Feelings are important, though, and we need to truly feel them. This seems obvious, but when it gets too intense, I either can’t or don’t want to feel them. The only emotion I’ve had on a consistent basis is fear, and I would trade it for any of the other ones. As they say in recovery, “feelings aren’t facts.” I realize emotions can’t really hurt me, and I’ve been trying to let them touch me and pass through without getting too worked up.

I’ve also upgraded my YouTube viewing to include funny and heartwarming scenes. My current favorite is the last scene of Scrubs, where J.D. leaves the hospital for the last time and sees the future before him. That scene makes me both laugh and cry — a double bonus! Also, who can resist Peter Gabriel?

Even though I use these videos as practice, I’ve noticed watching them is helping me to experience my emotions from a place other than fear. I’m not chasing them away anymore, and my heart feels much more full. They may not be real life yet, but the feelings are genuine and welcome until they become naturally my own.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten-thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love.

Washington Irving