I cry when I see pictures of babies. I cry when I see babies sleeping. I cry at weddings.
I cry when I read about horrific things done to other people.
I cried for a long time when ISIL first captured the Yezdi on the mountain, when the activists with flowers died in Egypt, and when a soldier dies or is injured, I cry.
I cry when children suffer.
I don’t cry for myself. I think it is abnormal, and that I should. I cry for myself maybe twice a year, out of frustration usually. I can see him hitting me in my mind’s eye and I do not cry. I do not cry when I remember him hitting any of us, and I do not cry when I remember the things he said to us. I feel a heavy weight when I think of those things, and I feel as if I need to get to work, to get us to therapies and treatments that will lessen those memories and make them powerless. I suppose it does motivate me, I bury it all with work. But I don’t talk to anyone about it. I never tell anyone what happened.
I wish I had normal reactions, where I would sob and be comforted and it would ease the weight, the ache. But I am not the weepy type. When things go wrong, when things get hard, I get to work. This is why I have PTSD. I am not processing properly.
I try to model all emotions and appropriate coping in front of my children. I let them see when I am sad, when I am angry, and I tell them why. I do not swear or stomp around, and if I do raise my voice I apologize. One son never cries, either, and the other son cries all the time, readily. My daughter cries as is appropriate for her age, and she has not hit the age of logic yet.
I have always reacted to small things and not big things. I am fantastic in emergencies and a bumbling idiot for mishaps.
I nearly cried once, in therapy, and instead of using that obvious cue to guide my therapy further into the topic, I changed the subject and my gears and kept the tears away.
I think it is too late to change these things about myself.