Crying.

(Will be formatted tomorrow into part of the "Here is My Real Head" series.)

     I hate everything about crying. Feeling hot and cold simultaneously, the pulsating headache, the gasping for every painful breath trapped inside my throat; everything is begging to break free, erupting only because I never learned a gradual release.

     I’m terrified of people hearing me cry. I don’t want people to know I’m weak, though more importantly, I don’t want people to know why I’m weak in the moment I am. Discussing the reasons later is nonchalant, but elaborating on my emotions as they course through my veins and pump my brain with irrationalities—that’s a child’s Hell House.

     I don’t want to do it alone, but I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. I don’t want to be laughed at or ridiculed, and I don’t want to be abandoned. I don’t want anyone getting the misconception I’m so weakened by my own problems that they cannot approach me with theirs.

     To this day, when I allow myself to completely sob, I feel immense amounts of guilt, shame, and embarrassment. Nothing embarrasses me more than someone hearing me cry, or knowing of my lack of self control as it occurs. I still feel as if I should cover my mouth with a rag, despite being nearly an adult.

     When I cry, I feel ugly, the ugliest I ever feel. I am worthless, unproductive, and weak by something I allow to affect me. My current number one wish is to better handle how exposed and unreal I’ve felt recently.

     I am not handling with care.