So was I.

With good reason.

I was 26.

I hadn’t cried for years.

Then something happened and the floodgates opened.

For three days. During this time, my colleague comes into my office and asks if I’m okay.

I turn back to my ATEX terminal (I was paid to write then) and said:

“I’m fine”, as big fat tears rolled down my face.

Then I stopped crying for six months.

I began getting anxiety attacks.

From the moment that I connected them to supressing the urge to cry, I haven’t had an anxiety attack. That was decades ago.

I take neither prescription drugs nor street drugs.

I made a deal with myself: no matter where, no matter what, no matter who, let the tears flow unencumbered.

The alternative seemed to be an anxiety attack.

Nothing is worth that. Nothing.

The pain of living has an exquisite sweetness.

Today I am not afraid when people cry – their soul is brushing past and I am no longer afraid of my own sorrow.

I have tears on my face and in my eyes as I write this.

I feel relieved that I can feel, that I can be moved.

I laugh easily too.

Crying makes everything more real. It’s like meditation in that respect.

I will have a good, calm day because of these morning tears.

I am grateful for that.