Tag Archives: crying

I got hit today. By a car. Well, but I was in a car, and so was the driver, and so everything was supposed to be fine. Which it was. Sort of.

Cause I drove away, and no one was hurt. And plus, it wasn’t even my fault. So that, too, was good.

But there was something not quite right about how I felt afterwards. Sure, we said our awkward goodbyes at the scene in front of the cop at the end.  And I drove away, adjusting my rearview mirror confidently, knowing I had done nothing wrong to cause this interference in the process of our days.

But then, all of a sudden, I just lose my sh!t.  I’m just crying and sobbing and snotting over every piece of clothing I’m wearing, and I’m just like, “woah.”  What is happening here?

Everything that I have ever thought of or been concerned about or worried about just comes pouring out in wave after wave, just crashing into the surface, violently, shamelessly, just smash, crash.  I don’t even know what the hell is going on.

I try to overcome it, I figure if I just lay down it will pass but it doesn’t pass so I make the WORST choice possible for a bipolar person in distress – I reach for alcohol to numb the pain.

Have I been here before? Yes.  Has it EVER EVER EVER helped? NO.

The only saving grace was me calling my best friend, who soothed me and calmed my crashing waves of emotion and swam me carefully back to shore.

I swear, she is what keeps me here.

Tomorrow is going to hurt. Bad. And the next day after that will be even worse. I’m just hoping that the next day after that gets slightly less worse. That’s what I’m shooting for. Wish me luck.

 

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Mommy – why are you crying?

Last night I just sat on the floor and cried.  In front of my kids.

I have a memory burned into my brain.  I was very young, and I came upon my mom sitting in the bathroom in the dark.  I wandered in and asked, “Are you crying?”  Of course, my mom being the mom that she was, denied that she was crying, quickly swept away her tears with the back of her hands, wiped her hands on her pants and stood up all in one swift movement.

I can remember each moment of that memory, and I can even slow it down to recall the sounds of her sobbing, the isolated feeling of being in the bathroom in the dark, and the curiosity I felt of why she was crying.

I didn’t feel disappointed or frightened or sad.  Just curious.

 

I try hard not to cry in front of my kids.  Because I am afraid it will disturb them or make them worry or feel pressure to “take care of” me, instead of just being themselves, carefree and oblivious.  But I’m not very good at turning off my tears once they start to fall.  In fact, it’s near impossible for me.

So when it hit me last night, I just crawled into the baby’s dark room and hid in the corner and cried.  Inevitably, the kids came in.  My oldest asked me why I was crying, and I couldn’t even stop sobbing long enough to tell him.  All I could say was “I’m sorry” over and over.  I was so afraid that this moment would become etched in his own memory just like mine had with my mother.

My son just kept telling me there was no reason to cry.  He gave me a hug and cuddled me till I was able to calm myself down.  After I stopped, I told him that sometimes it feels good to cry.  That it is a gift Allah has given us in order to help us release our emotions.

I didn’t want to hide the truth from him.  I wanted him to know I was crying and know that it was okay to cry, that it is not a sign of weakness and we should not be ashamed of it.

Being Muslim

Is.lam

I sobbed.  I cried like a baby – short, quick, gaspy breaths in between tears and tears and more tears.  I don’t even know what I was sobbing for.  I cried because I didn’t want to cry.  I cried because I felt like I should be strong and sober and stoic during this time.  My grama died 2 days ago.  I cried and then cried some more because I felt like crying meant my faith wasn’t strong enough.

See, as the only Muslim in my family, I felt I had to be some kind of grounded, religious leader to my sisters.  I felt that being a Muslim meant that you understand the natural cycle of death, that having the knowledge and grasping the concept of the temporary nature of life on earth meant that you were able to accept death and not be affected by it.

I didn’t want to believe that I, too, need to grieve.

So, it came upon me yesterday and I just broke.  I told my husband all of the turmoil I was going through inside my head and my heart.  He listened and he shared his experiences with death in his family and the mourning and grief that everyone goes through, no matter what your religion is.

Yesterday and today it rained all day.  I felt like Allah was softening up the ground for Grama’s burial for us.  I know it might not be my place to be concerned about how Grama is experiencing death, but I know how she experienced life, so in that respect, I pray Allah will give her peace and comfort during this time.

I also thought about how Grama raised my dad and aunt and uncle to believe in God, to have a strong faith, and to pray.  They used to say the rosary together every night during lent, all together, as a family.  That is some powerful stuff.  I feel blessed to have been raised in a family that has a deep, passionate love for God and to have that love instilled in myself.  If it wasn’t for Grama, I might have never reached the path to Islam.