How weak is more than two weeks?

Will it be hypocritical to talk about the pros of “letting it out” when I wear this armour on my chest?

So, Mental Health needs Awareness. Strike that. People need it; most times, they are mental. Spoiler alert, I throw in a lot of metaphors. Go ahead :)

It has been 46 days. 46 days since I had cried.

Surprisingly, our windows were locked shut, and the dripping raindrops against the tinted glass caught my eye. That’s when it struck me to count the days I haven’t shed a tear. It felt neat at first, like making a comeback for all the “drama queen,” “attention seeking” titles from time immemorial. But that “no-cry” me, has lost a dream, lost 2 great friendships and hasn’t grieved the loss of the only person who encouraged her curiosity and questions, in a month. People now call me stubborn? (ugh, people. I know, right?) It felt good initially after being laughed at for crying. But, does not-crying feel neat anymore?

This rain is still striking the glass panes, harder than the first time I took a notice. I don’t want to open the window. For the one who changed to preferring silence over noise, this noise somehow keeps things going. It was the comfort of this noise that was probably the beginning of a life-long, guilt-ridden grieving process. If it were me, I would have bawled my eyes out by now. It so wasn’t. It doesn’t feel weird either. I should start skimming through my journal for the day, something switched in me. Was it pride that my first failure was actual emotional weakness? Was it anger from all the name-calling that was realised shockingly later? Or was it just the change that everyone evidently goes through knowingly or unknowingly? How will I know? I search for answers in every place other than the ones that are pinned on my map. Oh, I have a standard excuse for that: trust issues. And see, this is what I do — sidelining into tangents to the main storyline and rambling that listeners to me have never been half as patient as the most impatient me.

Moving on, I don’t think this phase is doing any good to me either. I am betting on my no-crying phase to burst the gas out one final day and when it happens, there would be balled up papers from my journal, deleted poems from my Notes App and frantic sketching with that charcoal on the canvas that sleeps with all the other art supplies, neatly in the plastic.

But I have not cried in front of people for the sake of it for two years now. That’s a good time to count. I have cried “to” people, two out of the four of whom I am gladly out of reach from, but “in front of” is a story I am searching my brain’s undug corners for. It was a promise I made to myself, after an episode of a breakdown that was slapped on my face as “attention seeking.” No wonder why I preferred distance over familiarity. I laugh like a lunatic in my head every time I think of this choice. It’s too soon to judge if it’s a pro or con.

Perhaps a sound to tune, with such regularity, is good once in a while. Yes, it is the pitter-patter of the rain against the window pane I am talking about. And not just that, also crying and being small. I’d learn to like that tune. But there’s a misplaced note somewhere that makes me fear vulnerability at moments. Just like how I was told crying was a weakness, there exists a whole month spreading awareness online about how crying helps. It’s a damn vicious cycle. Being small on purpose is what I want to do now, which might be seen as genuine, but then at times I did feel genuinely small, they collected my tears to let my crocodile swim in there later. Do you see a whole damn circle? Yeah, chalk it, stay within there; it’s going to be a rough radius to walk out of.

Nonetheless, here I am, proud of my 46 days and still striking. Oh, if these walls could talk!

Will it be hypocritical to talk about the pros of “letting it out” when I wear this armour on my chest?