I don't cry.
I remember the last time I tried to hide in the basement and cry. My sobs echoed though the heating vent and my father came down from his bedroom, wanting to know how to make me stop. It was the next day I was aching so bad I misjudged a parking space, leaving issues still unresolved.
I did cry the other day, though quietly enough to avoid notice. Dr. Phil was talking to two kids, 7 and 9, and telling them that when their mother lashed out, it wasn't their fault. They aren't stupid or any of the other things she called them, and they don't have responsibility to fix or protect her. I saw myself in those kids and I wanted to care for them at the same time, but there was nothing I could do.
But today, I am alone for a few hours. There is work to be done, sleep to be caught up on, and a self to be listened to. The tears are there, just under the surface as Rosemary Clooney sings "When October Goes." But more, there are outbursts and ejaculations, big booms of sound that issue forth, eminating from somewhere deep inside.
I startle people, I scare people, I sqiuick people when my voice erupts. I know that, and that's why I stay slient, not letting out the sounds that hold my emotion.
But in times like this, the old Charlie Daniels injunction comes back to me: "Get Loud! Get Loud People, Be Proud! Be Proud You're A Rebel..."
I just had that blasting from the speakers but as I started to cry, I heard footsteps above me. I immediately switched it off and went upstairs to unload the car and make a supper for them. I'm rocking, starting to cry down here, and then I have to switch off, be of service in a way they understand.
Get Loud, Be Proud. In a family where noise as seen as painful, and emotions are seen as noise, that seems impossible.
But please, don't let that stop you. Get Loud, Be Proud. And make at least one of those deep, primal whoops for me, eh?