I Learnt To Cry Aged 39

I learnt to cry when I was 39.

Not for the first time - I used to cry as a child - but I remember vividly the day that I decided to stop: when I felt that my vulnerability had become weaponised as part of a power play.

I had been ordered to bend over my desk in order to be spanked with a belt. I think I was 9.

I don’t remember the purported reason for this disproportionate consequence of my actions (shows how illogical corporate punishment really is) but I do remember realising that the dynamic between the perpetrator (my father) and the accused (myself) wasn’t entirely straightforward.

Because the motive behind his actions didn’t orginate with him but with my mother, who had first decided that whatever I had done warranted sounding the death knell.

And in my 9-year-old mind, I sensed that this show of physical dominance wasn’t so much to do with what I’d said or done, but about exerting mental dominance over who got to decide what was allowed and what wasn’t - however unreasonable, illogical or arbitrary.

That’s when I decided to join in.

And to prove that the only power I had to yield in that moment - my tears - would be my last defense: if my submission meant showing that my parents’ actions were causing me pain, then I would pretend that they weren’t.

That I was invicible. That nothing could get to me.

And so the impenetrable fortress around my emotions was erected - to remain in place for 30 more years.

Both keeping friends, romantic partners and eventually, even my own kids, on the outside, and keeping me safe - but imprisoned - on the inside.

It kept me comfortable with anger - my trauma response go-to is still to fight, shout, break and hit (as opposed to fawning, fleeing or freezing) - and ensured I stayed well away from vulnerability.

Until, that is, I learnt that my vulnerability doesn’t have to be part of a power play.

And that to be seen in my pain and hurt by those who could hold space for the whole me - whilst taking even more strength than I had used in trying to hold it all in - felt equally soothing.

I cry readily now. Perhaps too much so.

But now the tears and my capacity for surrender, are as welcome as the anger and my capacity to defend.

Both are (sometimes inappropriate) vehicles for my anxiety, fear, overwhelm, shame, jealousy and guilt - I no longer need to prioritise one over the other in order to prove something to someone else.

And no-one gets to decide for me any longer, what I’m allowed to say or do in order to fit in or be excluded; in order to receive praise or punishment.

My inner child still sometimes fears the potentially superior physical power of men as well as the potential betrayal of women (the parental wound).

And she can still feel unnerved by and mistrusting of their capacity for protection and nurture (the balm).

But she no longer looks towards figures of authority for approval nor subjugates her needs and feelings for others.

This is the power of healing your past, mama: when little you feels safe, adult you is free to be her true, unapologetic self (vulnerability included).