Today, as I sat sobbing cross-legged on the floor in my bathroom--exhausted from working a straight ten-hour shift broken up by a single 20-minute meal in the middle, emotionally drained from agonizing over the feelings of coworkers, frustrated with my husband for not taking out the garbage or doing the dishes, and angry with my daughter for drawing on her furniture yet again--I found myself overwhelmed by the crippling devastation of neglected emotions.
I had locked the door and put on headphones so I wouldn't be able to hear my husband knocking, and I had turned the music up loud enough to drown out the sound of my breathing. If the music was loud enough to do that, then it was loud enough to drown out my thoughts, and let's be honest; Sometimes, we just don't have the strength to deal with those anymore. So, I mindlessly scrolled through Facebook, waiting for the feelings of anger and frustration, impatience and self-loathing, unexplainable melancholy and anxiety to pass, when I felt a tear leak out of my eye, dropping onto the fabric of my shirt. Now, I couldn't tell you what it was about that tear that broke me, but break me, it did. Perhaps it was the misplaced feeling of failure that I couldn't stop it from falling, or maybe it was a sensation of release so profound, that a single tear washed away a month's worth of emotional repression. Regardless, somehow, it was the realization of that tear falling that released a torrent of emotion so strong, I doubled over, trying to hold myself together physically while I felt apart spiritually.
Crying isn't attractive. On the contrary, it's actually rather gross looking. Eyes get red and puffy, like they're offended by the air trying to comfort them. Our tear ducts produce too much liquid for our eyes to release on their own, so what happens? It drains into our nasal cavity, mixes with the mucus we didn't realize was waiting for the opportunity to escape and becomes a violent flood of liquid that rushes out of our nose. Our faces literally leak. And it doesn't just come out of our nose, no. No, in fact, our lungs seem to realize there is suddenly liquid coming from somewhere liquid should not be coming, and to protect them, the glottis (Google it) swells, making your throat feel like it's clogged. Breathing becomes impossible, because to breathe through your nose would mean making sending mucus and saline into the Multiverse, and the sobs contracting your diaphragm are clearly trying to keep you from taking a deep breath in through your mouth, which would be hard to do anyway, because the glottis is a drama queen. Basically, the body goes into a state of crisis in which survival is really the only objective. Screw appearances, and screw trying not to sniff back mucus for the next two to four hours. The body demands a sacrifice for its relief and the sacrifice is being able to comfortably look at yourself in the mirror at least thirty minutes.
With that visual in mind, you can imagine the scene that unfolded in my bathroom this evening. I sobbed, I wept, I leaked, I sat curled in cross-legged fetal position as my chest cracked open and spilled months' worth of agony into my body while listening to "Say It Right" by Nelly Furtado. In the moment, it wasn't pretty, it wasn't relieving or epiphanic, and seriously, toilet paper does not make good facial tissue for prolonged use. I thought to myself, "I can't do this. I don't want to. It hurts. There's too much. I can't handle it." And really, it's because at every opportunity over the past several weeks when I should have cried, I held it back. Every time I wanted to scream, I swallowed it down. Every time I wanted to say something, I held my tongue. Because emotions aren't convenient, and they aren't easy, and when left to build, they can become overwhelming.
There's a reason dams are built to retain a certain volume, and why, at certain capacities, they release. With enough pressure or neglect, a dam will weaken until it eventually fails, and for some reason, especially as adults, we seem to challenge our dam's capacity. Toddlers don't have this issue, bless their tantrum-throwing hearts. Every three-year old who sobs themselves to hiccups at the end of a meltdown wakes up the next day with no recollection of the amazing relief his or her spirit has endured, and with equal parts annoyance and jealousy, we wipe their chubby-cheeked, bodily-fluid-covered faces and envy the emotional relief that seems to shine from their eyes. To cry when it feels like there is physically no other option, is the body's way of begging you to do something with the emotion it can no longer handle. Adults do this as forced; Children seem to do it on instinct.
Miraculously, my body survived, and at the end of what felt like complete emotional destruction, my soul felt better too. Despite having the same realization at the end of most of my meltdowns, I was yet again struck by the concept of letting myself fall apart. There has to be release, even when we don't want it. It's gross and messy, and yes, it hurts my family when I lock myself in the bathroom, unwilling and unable to communicate what's happening inside my spirit. But in the end, we survive. We unlock the door and walk out, blinking through those stupid swollen eyelids, and with some laughter, love, and a begrudging load of laundry, we put ourselves back together.
From this post-meltdowned (not a word), emotionally relieved, and now starving human, thank you for taking the time to peek into my brain and for letting me share my thoughts with you. I hope you have an awesome night.
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