It’s been a long time since I’ve cried. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve cried in almost ten years.
I don’t mean getting teary-eyed when I watch kitten or puppy videos, or sappy movies intended to tug at my heart. I’m talking gut-wrenching, turn the faucets on in both eyes, blow my way through an entire box of kleenex, type of crying.
Why should I? What good comes from it?
For me, when I open floodgates and let it all go like that, it usually means I’ve hit bottom. It indicates I’ve fought so hard, for so long, for so little, and I’m disgusted with the outcome and pissed off at myself.
It also means I’ve just popped the cork of champagne at my pity party and that I’m scared. Frightened of the future and fearful of failing when my life is counting on the success of my actions.
I know a lot of folks who tell me they have few regrets in their lives, but I, for one, have a ton of them.
Probably too many to mention. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. I go over my regrets time and time again.
Reviewing them just like I’m watching old movies, I love to hate. Knowing the ending of these regrets because I’m already experiencing the ends, and knowing it’s far too late to rewrite the script.
And I get sad and melancholy, and I try to stiffen the lip and soldier on, double down on life even when this world of ours is trying to fight back and kill off the lot of us.
Then I have days like this. I have days where I’m just about to step off the elevator on my downward trip to the basement.
That’s when I think about having so much I want to accomplish and so little time left I suddenly remember to cry.
When I cry like this, usually accompanied by a wave of hiccups, which makes it look like I’m sloppy drunk, I don’t like being around myself very much. And since I’m trapped in this skin wherever I go, well, I go. Not like I can get very far away from myself.
For me crying like this is the only way I know to push the reset button, actually the release valve. I tell myself the breakdown will put me right again, and I’ll bounce back straight away.
The problem is, what I tell myself and what I’m afraid will happen might be two entirely different things. And that makes me even more nervous.
I’m afraid I might just lay me down and never get my a*s back up, physically and mentally.
Maybe it’s my age or my paranoia that evil Earth has finally sent its viral minions to cull the herd, this time including me in the roundup, but I’m feeling the end of my days rushing at me.
And there are times when I really feel pretty d*mned helpless to do anything about it.
What’s so d*mned intriguing is that for almost twelve years now, I’ve learned to forget the emotions bringing me to the state I’m currently in. I’ve learned to push them aside and continue to forge ahead.
It’s as if a long time ago, I made a conscious decision to adopt a rather Darwinistic attitude toward emotion and feeling. A — lose if I don’t use — outlook on life. I was often replacing it with work, with chores, with earning money to pay endless monotonies of bills.
I’ve spent a lot of time learning to forget certain emotions.
And as I take these steps toward the end of my days, I get pissed at myself when, again, for the thousandth time, I realize it’s not all about money. It’s about doing what I love to do, what I was born to do.
It’s about being me.
I may be running out of time. If Mother Earth has anything to say in the matter, I might just end up hacking up my lungs or, worse, drown in my own pneumonia induced fluids.
Troubling to write much less think about.
Today, this afternoon, I’m feeling the weight on my shoulders and in my thoughts. Although I haven’t started bawling just yet, I’m starting to feel those emotions. The ones I’ve pushed away for so many years, beginning to pulse just beneath the surface of my consciousness.
It might happen today, or tomorrow. It might happen at work when my sociopath boss finally puts me on an action plan. It could even happen when I serve my two-week notice, and they accept it, or they don’t.
I don’t know, but I can feel it. The tears want to come, but I’m going to hold on just a bit longer before I suddenly remember to cry.
Just a bit longer.
Love To All My Brothers and Sisters
Paul Gene Barnett
Thanks So Much For Reading
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