The Many Types of Tears
I’ve cried about every type of cry there is since Libby died. There are the public, tears-silently-running-down-the-cheeks cries and the I’m-so-sad-I-just-have-to-get-it-out, medium-sized cries, and then there are the I-am-so-hysterical-I-literally-can’t-breathe-and-want-to-die cries.
One evening, I cried so hard that I actually broke a blood vessel in my nose and blood started pouring out onto my desk and lap. I was in my office and ran to the bathroom, where I just stood there, hunched over on the sink for support, while the blood gushed out of my nose and I sobbed and choked.
I don’t get nosebleeds, like ever, so I have to tell you, this incident scared the shit out of me. And then the whole PTSD thing kicked in, and I kept looking at the blood splattered on the sink and my arms and my face and started screaming because all I could think about was the blood I saw all over my son Max the night of the accident. (Remember, he was driving the car when Libby was killed.)
Blood and Tears
Max was covered in so much blood that night, and I remember standing next to his hospital bed morbidly wondering which blood was his and which was his sister’s. It was utterly terrifying how a nosebleed could take me right back to that hospital room.
Another time, I visited the memorial for my daughter at the accident site. I had gone there to put some solar-powered flowers at the site so that it would light up in the dark. I cried pretty much the whole time and kept getting startled by all of the fast-moving trucks that barreled their way past me as I worked. When I was done, I stood up and walked down the embankment to the side of the road—I
was so close to traffic that when the trucks passed by me, my hair blew into my face.
I contemplated walking out in front of one of them. It would be quick, I thought. I’d die right here where Libby did, in the same way. I counted six trucks as they passed me. One of them honked. That honk brought me out of my own head, and I ran back up the embankment to my car. Then I started sobbing hysterically and screaming, “I HATE YOU!!!” at every single truck that rolled by.
So Many Kinds of Tears
I screamed those words and cried for around twenty minutes—which felt like a lifetime—and then I started my car and drove home.
That cry made me look like I had gone a few rounds in the boxing ring and lost. By A LOT.
Then there were the times when I couldn’t cry at all. The I’m-so-fucking-sad-why-can’t-I-cry? moments when I would feel like a horrible person because I was talking about my daughter and people across from me were wiping their eyes, but I was as dry as a bone and I just KNEW they were thinking that I didn’t love my daughter because OBVIOUSLY a good mom would be crying telling this
story and . . . .
Sigh. You get the idea.
This is your reminder that ALL of the many, many types of tears shed or not shed during grief are normal and do not, in any way, reflect the amount of love you felt for your person.
Read more by Brooke Carlock at Grieving Mommy: One Mama’s Journey Through Child Loss/Grieving Mommy: a grieving mom’s journey through child loss
Check out Brooke’s other writing on Open to Hope: ‘You’re SO Strong’: A Misunderstanding of Grief – Open to Hope
