Monday, August 12, 2013

Not a Pretty Crier

I am not a pretty crier.

My face turns completely red, more blotchy near the cheeks as if I have a fresh sunburn. My eyes get red too. The nice whites with the small, thin veins turn bloodshot red. It makes my green irises stand out a bit more, but then again, it almost looks creepy. Like some kind of monster from a horror film My nose gets red—again like the sun decided to welcome me to summer.

I am not a pretty crier.

My strangled sobs sound more like a dying pig—or something to that affect as I have never actually heard a pig die. Perhaps just a scared animal. A high-pitched screech? No, that is me laughing. My cries are different. It is like a hiccup, only it is cut short because I cannot breathe. It is a strangled breath that can never quite reach the full air it needs. Constricted. Heaving through me. My lungs beg for air. But there seems to be something—emotions, or tears or disgusting phlegm—stuck inside.

I am not a pretty crier.

I want to poke my eyes out because it hurts to cry. The tears sting and they blur my vision so much around the edges I may as well not see. So I close them to meet the ink black of the back of my eyelids and hopefully find some kind of sanity refuge. It doesn’t work. The tears still come. They still hurt. They still burn as they slip out beneath the crack of my eye and the lid and that is probably making it worse because it has to fight to break out. Whereas before, it just had to fall slowly out like a drop of rain from a wet leaf. 

I am not a pretty crier.

Then there is my nose of course. Snot drips out as if Niagara Falls just ran a leak. I cannot make it stop. I try and try to wipe it away, but somehow more builds up and slides out my nose. An endless supply. The snot and the tears mix and stick to my face and lips. I can taste it. The salt and the weirdo sweet taste together. 

I am not a pretty crier.

 I curl into a weird ball shape where my too long legs stick out funky. My teeth jam into my knee because I can’t quite sit still but I still want to squeeze myself together until I break. Putting my hand over my chest, where I can feel my heart racing like a crazy dog running down the street chasing a car, doesn’t help. My restricted chest that feels as if all the world is pressing against me and I cannot move. The ceiling is getting lower, the walls getting closer, until I am rolled into the smallest ball. And that doesn’t help because it still gets lower and lower and collapses over me. 

I am not a pretty crier.

I am exhausted. My eyes hurt. My throat is sore from the abnormal sounds coming out of my vocal chords. My chest heaves sigh after sigh, trying to find the right breath to bring the perfect amount of air back into my lungs and wake up my brain from these awful feelings. But it doesn’t come.

I am not a pretty crier.

And when all the tears have been shed, my breath returns. My throat doesn’t feel so clogged. My eyes still hurt, but no more tears leak out as if the dog just got a huge drink of water only to find most of it has dripped out of its mouth and tongue and on to your hands or face. The crying lingers. My cheeks are still red, like sunburn. My nose is red. Snot still battles against my constant sniffling to release it or suck it back up into my brain. And then my eyes are still reddened, as if I stayed up too many nights or I put weirdo monster make-up contacts to make me look scary (I would never do that). But it all just reminds me.

I am not a pretty crier.

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