I haven’t cried … really cried … in over half a year. I don’t remember the last time I cried, and God knows that I really need to right now.
I was a sensitive little kid, and the other kids would always tease me, which would always make it worse. In particular, they’d call me “crybaby,” which, let me say, doesn’t help when the kid cries enough as it is. So, crying became my self-defense mechanism. Every time I felt threatened, I would cry, and most of the times it would get me out of hot water. It became a habit, and then, even when I wanted to be strong and to accept the punishment that I knew I deserved, I would start to cry. It got to be a problem.
I don’t know when I stopped crying. I don’t know why. It bothers me sometimes, like now, because I can’t fathom these changes that have infiltrated my life. I can’t explain them, and that bothers me, too. I don’t know where the old me stopped and the new me began, or whether this is just a new, continuous phase that crept up on me suddenly and stopped me dead in my emotional tracks. I don’t feel emotionally dead, but I wonder if I could cry again … I wonder if I could breathe a little easier.
(By the way, that photo was taken on the road from the medieval town of Anagni to the monastery of Casamari, both in Italy. It reads “dolce sogno,” which means “sweet dreams.”)