I woke up today with a hangover. Not a booze-inflicted hangover. A crying hangover. Yesterday afternoon, I wept uncontrollably for an hour at least. I don't remember how long it actually was. It all gushed out, the despair I'd been closeting in my heart. I couldn't contain it any more. My hands to my face, I let the dam burst, and I couldn't stop it. I wept and wailed, and, like a cut vein, the pain gushed and gushed. Like a rain-soaked cloud, it poured and poured and poured, a hurricane of pain, a typhoon of pain and distress and hopelessness. It had been brewing for months, but I'd contained it, until something set it off, I don't know what. Somehow, my heart had become saturated. I was on the phone with my brother, and I had to hang up. I could feel it coming, and I couldn't stop it, didn't want to stop it.
And I not only wept, I wailed, throwing out desperate question after desperate question. I don't know the answers. Why? Why did it end up like this?
The complete vulnerability, nakedness, all of it poured out of my eyes and throat.
And afterward—you all know this—stunned and exhausted, wrung out, nothing left, nothing.
No answers. But surrender. Blessed surrender.
The release of those pent-up feelings, overcoming the instinct to keep in control, for God's sake, not to mention the sense, in my case at least, that it's unmanly to cry—to break past that and let it happen. Finally.