The Tears I Cannot Cry
A reflection on caretaking, anger, and the fear of breaking down completely.
I’ve just gotten into bed on the evening of 24 September, and like every night, I look back on my day. Something I don’t do every day, but have the need to do now, is grab my phone so I can pour out my feelings.
I smile when I think of my daughter’s shyness because others have praised her writing, a journey she has just started, and is already so good at. Yes, I am biased, but others confirm my words.
Then my thoughts travel to the first half an hour I was with her this morning…
I cried. The tears had been threatening to fall for about two weeks now, but I mostly blinked them away, or masked them with anger and some foul language.
It’s stupid. It seems I’m less ashamed of swearing than I am of showing my emotions.
Less than two weeks ago I wrote about the tears that had overwhelmed me, but even then I swallowed them away within minutes. Maybe that crying should have alerted me of this downward spiral.
Earlier tonight, I sent my best friend a text message asking her how she was. She echoed my words of yesterday when she asked me the same: she feels down but cannot put into words what’s wrong.
That was exactly what I told my daughter this morning.
Ask me to tell you what I feel, why I am down, why I feel the tears below the surface all the time, why the smallest and most insignificant thing threatens to put me over the edge…
I just can’t tell you. I don’t have the words, because I don’t know.
My life has never been easy, but especially the past five years have taken a toll on me. Ever since my husband had a light stroke and cancer was diagnosed, our lives changed so much.
He can’t work anymore. He can’t drive anymore. He has little energy, and in the past year, I have noticed more of a decline. I have offered to cook, but he is determined to cook every other day, and I turn a blind eye to the dishes, leaving him to do them. Occasionally, he vacuums the downstairs — only that, no dusting, nothing else — and he sort of keeps the garden in order, which means on average, he will do something in the garden one day in about three months. I ignore the garden, the weeds, and the clutter. He literally can’t do more as he doesn’t have the energy. For example, when he does the dishes, he has to rest in between. He can’t do everything in one go.
(Sidenote: With so little energy, our intimate life is non-existent. We live together like siblings. Thank goodness for menopause, which has mostly stolen my libido.)
Every other chore in the house is mine. I do all the driving. Sometimes I don’t want to go anywhere but he does and I feel the despair when I know I can’t say no again. I have to work while he can fill his day with whatever he wants, even though it means just sitting in his recliner and watching television or listening to music. I know, this is not the ideal life. I know he is ill and I know if he could, he would be more active, still work do the grocery shopping and do his share if the chores.
Of course, I know all that, and I try to keep that in mind, but still I sometimes feel the anger.
Just yesterday morning, after yet another night of bad sleep, I got up when the alarm went at 5am. I was so angry, as the last hour before I had to get up, he kept me from drifting off because of his snoring.
In my head I screamed at him: You can sleep while I have to work. You can watch television while I have to work. You have no deadlines. No boss demanding whatever from you. No colleagues irritating you. You can do whatever you want!
I was so angry, I wanted to scream out my frustration, but I didn’t.
Sometimes all those feelings seem to gather together like the pressure inside a volcano, and I struggle to keep the lava stream of emotions down.
In moments like that, the tears sting, and all I want to do is cry. I long to sob and sob and sob until I’m empty. Until I feel lighter. Feel the light.
But I can’t.
I’m too afraid to let go. Afraid it will hurt too much. Afraid I won’t be able to handle the pain. Afraid I won’t be able to stop
I’m afraid once I break down, I won’t be able to pick up the pieces again.
I can’t break down. I have to be strong for both of us now.
So, when the emotions bubble and spill, I allow a bit of them out like I did this morning, while my daughter held me tight. Then I swallow, and swallow, and swallow, and slowly feel my eyes dry.
I sigh, put the lid on the pressure cooker and move on to the next thing I have to do.
Maybe one day I will be strong enough to let the tears flow, to cry until I’m empty.
But not just yet…
Also read this wonderful essay by
Love you! ❤️
<3 i understand so much of this and am very glad you have your daughter