Don't Wipe My Tears (A Poem)

Don't wipe my tears

just let them fall

streak my cheeks

drip and crawl

From my eyes

pooling at my nose

caught on my lips

dampening my clothes

Don't wipe my tears

I like how they feel

they wash my skin

and help me heal

Wouldn't shut them off

even if I could

because with the bad

there's always good

Don't wipe my tears

they serve me well

teach me patience

help me to quell

the piece of me

with doubt and fear

and put in its place

a pride sincere

Don't wipe my tears

they're mine to own

understanding this

shows how I've grown

No longer afraid 

of what tears may say

because I make the rules

and tears are ok

Be Fazed

Who started the lie that it's better for us all to pretend?

Who decided that if you walk through life unfazed it shows your superiority over others who don't? That prohibiting things from affecting you is proof that you are above them. That a cool, calm demeanor in the face of adversity is the ultimate sign of strength?

Who tricked us into believing that we should edit our lives to make them look as pretty as possible? That you should spend your energy on maintaining an image. That if you can project the facade of stability and success then that is what really matters.

Who lead us to believe that what we feel should be controlled? That simply deciding to be happy is the key to happiness. That emotions can be categorized as "good" and "bad." That those feelings deemed "bad" should be confined only to the quiet tears on your pillow at night. Or maybe not even your pillow should hear them. Maybe you shouldn't feel anything at all.

Who convinced us that this is a kind of life worth living?

We are the who.

We are the who that started the lie,
decided every day to believe it,
tricked ourselves into living by it,
and denied ourselves the right
to be ourselves.

I want to be fazed.
I want to go through life feeling anything and everything that comes my way.

I want to appreciate the support of my friends and family because I know how destabilizing it is to feel alone. I want to fully understand the power and the preciousness of love because I've felt the heartbreak of having it taken from me. I want to cherish my life with everything I have because I know how painfully fragile it is. I want to reach the highest highs and the lowest lows and acknowledge them both for their inherent value.

A life lived unfazed is not a life I want. When life inevitably knocks me down, I will cry. I will allow myself to feel defeated, unwanted, exhausted, disgusted, disgusting, angry, anxious, alone, afraid. I will feel all of those feelings with the same respect and dignity that is afforded to more socially acceptable emotions. Because we are the who that decides what's socially acceptable anyway. We are the who that can decide it's better for us not to pretend anymore.

Hindsight is 20/20

There was a pivotal moment from the last day Blake and I were together that I always think about.
                                                  _______________________

It was the last morning of our Memorial Day week together. As we were talking, Blake started nodding in and out of consciousness. At first he was alert and texting someone, but then his body slowly melted into his phone; his fingers frozen mid-movement. I yelled "BLAKE!" He stirred and then immediately went back to texting like nothing had happened.

I didn't want to brush off such absurd behavior so I questioned, "Why are you falling asleep like that?" He shot me a look that instantly had me thinking that I needed to back down or this would escalate quickly. Blake explained defensively that I knew he hadn't slept much the past two nights because of all the stress he was under. He assured me that I would be falling asleep too if I was him. He asked what exactly I was trying to accuse him of anyway? Was I trying to say he was on drugs or something?

"No..." I thought to myself that I actually hadn't been trying to say that at all, but since he mentioned it so defensively maybe I should have been. But instead I told my brain that what Blake said made sense. He was rattled by upcoming challenges and the fact that I was leaving for a whole month. This was keeping him up all night and had him worrying himself sick. Blake must have been sleep deprived. This was just his body shutting down. Besides, I thought to myself, he already went to rehab and recovered. I didn't want to ruin our last hours together so I just apologized and gave him a kiss.

When I get to the end of replaying this moment, my mind sweeps me up into a different fantasy. In this new version I've concocted out of pain, sadness, horror, guilt, whatever you want to call it, our conversation doesn't stop where it did.

When he questions me "Are you trying to say I'm on drugs or something?" I silently walk over to where he's sitting on the couch. Without a word, I sit on his lap and wrap my arms around him. When I start to squeeze him tightly I notice that his breathing becomes a little shallower and he chokes up. Before I know it he's crying, harder than I've ever seen him cry. It's like the floodgates of his heart burst open and all the sadness he's been damming up can finally rush out. Without a single word we have the conversation he'd been meaning to broach with me for months.

I like this alternative ending better because it gives me hope that he was always just moments away from letting me in on his addiction. But inevitably I pass from thinking that to feeling horribly upset at myself for never uncovering the pain that was clearly right under the surface. Maybe I was so caught up in myself that I never thought to question deeper about what was going on with him. Maybe all it would have taken is one knowing hug to help him understand that I would always love him no matter what. That he had no secret too dark for me to handle. That there was no burden I wasn't willing to help him carry.

I get lost in that for a while, allowing myself to think I could have saved him. I push it further and start thinking that if I would have cared just a little bit more, he'd still be alive.

But that's when I stop myself. Although now I know that "nodding off" is an effect of heroin use, at the time I had no idea that the two were even connected. Now I know that Blake was using, but at the time I had no idea that the state he was in at the end of his final weekend had anything to do with drugs. I can fantasize all I want about how I could've gotten him to open up and come clean to me in that moment, but in that moment I had no idea there was anything he needed to come clean about!

                       _______________________

I hope that in writing about this moment, discussing my fantasy, and absolving myself from blame that I have set myself free from it. Although this memory will probably still float through my mind from time to time, I need to remember that hindsight is 20/20. I see that moment with a completely different pair of eyes than I saw it through the first time. For this reason, I can't compare what I did and what I now believe I could have done, should have done. It's not fair to torture myself that way, so I won't.

Everybody Has a Story

During orientation for my grad program, it was drilled into our heads that the 13 strangers in my cohort were about to become my family. Over the next four years we could expect to study together, learn together, argue, cry, be pushed to our wits end, lift each other up, and be each other's greatest support and motivation. I looked around.

Knowing that we need to form a cohesive unit to get through this journey, we decided to get together for a pot luck on Wednesday night. As a bonding activity, each of us was asked to bring an item and share a story. This item was supposed to represent an experience that helped shape us into the people we are now. The story needed to be something personal, a way for us to really get to know each other, to understand what we've been through. So with that in mind, I knew my item and story had to have something to do with Blake.

I've really grappled with the questions of "if/when/how much" I should share with new people about what I'm going through with the death of my boyfriend. Does everyone need to know? If I tell people too soon, will they be blinded by their pity for me and not really get to know me for who I am aside from it? Will telling them too much make people afraid of me and back away from getting close to the mess of a person that I am right now? But in the spirit of allowing these strangers to become my family, I knew this was something I needed to share with them. I needed to share it now and I needed to share as much about it as they were willing to listen to. I put Blake's cologne in my bag, and walked out the door.

When it was my turn for show and tell, I immediately started crying. The first couple of minutes I looked down into my lap at Blake's cologne, insuring that I wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. I didn't want to see their eyes fill with sympathy. I didn't want to watch as I transformed in their minds from the bubbly, smiling girl they met at orientation to a broken, lost soul in pieces in front of them. I blacked out as I started talking. I'm actually not even sure what I said. All I know is that the more I talked, the more I was able to breathe.

I finally looked up at the strangers around me. As I saw their faces, I realized maybe it wasn't just me who was changing in their minds, but also them in mine. But this wasn't a negative thing like I originally thought. They changed in the sense that they didn't feel like strangers anymore. And suddenly I wasn't a stranger in their eyes either. By sharing this personal piece of my life, we became familiar.

One by one all of the strangers took out their items and talked about their lives. And each time, that stranger became a person, someone who was real to me. The stick figure on their page in my book was colored, shaped, and detailed into their own unique form. When I looked around now, I saw friends.

Sometimes I trap myself in my pain by thinking I'm the only one who's ever been hurt this way. In a way I'm right, because no one will ever truly know how it feels to be me in my exact situation as I'm experiencing it now. But it would be foolish for me to think that just because that's true, it means I'm alone in my pain. 

That night with my cohort reminded me that everybody has a story. Although there are a million different ways a person can experience pain, it all hurts. We are all united in our struggles because we know there is no cure for them; pain will always exist, and it may even increase. But every time I turn a stranger into a friend by sharing a piece of my pain, I can breathe easier. And when they share a piece of their pain with me, they can breathe easier as well. The beautiful thing about pain is that it bonds people. And that bond turns strangers into friends and friends into family.

We Are Only as Sick as Our Secrets

After my realization from yesterday about needing to take control, I decided that today was the day to get help. Two weeks ago I tried to go to a Narcotics Anon meeting, but found out after I got there that the meeting was cancelled. Ever since then I have been making excuses to myself about why I shouldn't go again. Narcotics Anon meetings are only available in two places even semi close to me and they are both 30 or more minutes away. Each of these Narcotics Anon meetings is only once a week at a bad time (Tuesday nights, when I'll usually have class and Friday nights, when I'll be trying to have a social life). Clearly this wasn't working.

I heard from a few people that Al Anon (similar to Alcoholics Anonymous, but for the loved ones of Alcoholics) is really helpful, even if the loved one has a different addiction. When I looked up available Al Anon meetings there were some every day of the week, at several locations fairly close to me, and at multiple times throughout the day. This was encouraging, but at the same time made me upset. It seemed unfair that this support was so readily available to loved ones of alcoholics, but not of other addictions. Perhaps this was evidence of the stigma even the families of illegal-drug addicts feel when trying to cope. Hmm...

I decided on a 1 PM meeting and arrived almost an hour early. I walked through the church courtyard, straight to the office, and confidently asked the woman to point me in the direction of the Al Anon meeting. No shame this time. I was there to get help and I didn't care who knew it. She pointed at a room that wasn't open yet, but told me there was a bench outside of it where I could sit and wait. I let my skin take in the sun even as I got hot and a bit sweaty. I wanted to be completely engulfed in the light that I had deprived myself of for the past couple of days. I breathed in and out, letting my lungs swell with the air of the outside world that I felt happy to be a part of today.

Although I can't share much about what went on due to confidentiality, I will say that I did not speak at all during this meeting aside from choking on my name. I don't think this was because I was afraid, but because I just needed to sit and soak it all in. Instead of talking, I did a lot of crying, listening, and reflecting. After it concluded, the woman next to me, perhaps sensing the inner conflict I felt after not speaking up, reassured me that it wasn't necessary to share at the meetings. She explained that sometimes you get even more out of what someone else said. 

During the meeting I scribbled down a quote from the book, Courage to Change, that the leader had someone read a passage from:

"We are only as sick as our secrets. 

Until we let them out into the light, they keep us trapped."

After the wave of insecurity I put myself through over the past few days, this really resonated with me. As much as Blake's death was about him, it is now a part of me and all of those who love him. This tragedy can either become a pain buried in the depths of my heart, or a scar that blends into the landscape of my skin. It's my choice. 

I realize I need to get to a place where I allow this experience to become a part of me without it defining me. This is tricky and is going to take time to navigate. But while I'm working on that, I can find comfort in my choice to free myself of the burden of carrying the hurt as a secret. I've made an effort to not get trapped and I am very proud of myself for sticking to that decision.

The Types of Crying

Sometimes I randomly start crying out of nowhere. It's not like the crying I do when something reminds me of Blake or I'm specifically thinking about him. This type of crying is almost like my body has decided it's too full of sadness and starts leaking out tears. It begins slowly, without consciousness or warning, and increases through my confusion. Why am I crying now? What's wrong with me?

This is a quiet process. Quiet enough that no one would notice if they weren't looking at me. So I take it as a moment to retreat into my mind for a little while. I don't try to stop the tears; I let them roll down my cheeks and create small puddles on my shirt. I am patient with myself and ride this wave of tear drops until my body decides it has released enough. 

And then it's over, just as quickly and silently as it began. 

I have discovered there are several different types of crying, each one important in its own way. Although I'm sure there are more, these are the kinds I've been experiencing the most in my grief:

There is the gut wrenching crying that comes from the pit of your stomach and makes you heave as it suffocates you with it's force. This crying let's the anger and frustration out. When you've finished with this type of crying, you are so exhausted from the energy it takes that you don't have the capacity to be mad anymore. 

Then there is confused crying. Your brain is bouncing from one thought to the next, you're wondering why, feeling helpless and hopeless. There are no real answers to any of the things you're wondering, so all you can do is cry. In some weird way this crying makes you feel better because at least now you're able to say out loud how lost you feel. And that's ok. This is the best kind of crying to do with someone else because you can bond in mutual confusion and support each other in agreement about how unfair life can seem sometimes. 

But then there's happy crying. Your heart becomes so full of gratitude that a smile can't fully convey your intense emotions. Tears tumble from your eyes as visual representations of the love that fills your heart so completely that it can't contain it anymore. These happy tears wash you clean, give you strength, let you know you're going to be alright. 

And the silent tears I talked about first? I think they serve the purpose of reminding me it's ok to feel. Even when I'm distracted by my day, moving forward with my life, they come out of no where to remind me that I'm allowed to pause. If I tried to stifle them, they'd probably turn into confused crying or even angry crying. So instead, I use them as a reminder that I'm still healing. Instead of being upset with myself for that, I respect it. I give these tears the space they need and let my body decide when it's finished. And just as suddenly as they began, they stop. 

I am thankful to my body for the ability to feel, my heart for the capacity to emote, and my mind for the understanding that all types of crying are important and necessary.