one year in berlin

I haven’t shed a tear in years. When the weight of that becomes too much to swallow, I try to make myself cry. I remember that immaculate feeling — how everything would shine afterward, how everything would leave with a silent and silvery goodbye.

My only therapist is my psychiatrist. I speak to her internationally on the phone. Someone else picks up my meds, so that another person can pick those meds up, and finally bring them to me.

Maybe next visit, I’ll tell her I miss crying.

I’m okay. I’m fine. But I just feel like I’d be better if I could cry — physically, fully, freely.

Before medication, I used to cry maybe two, sometimes four times a day. Maybe that’s what I’m chasing — that kind of release. That could be a door, no?

Or maybe it’s not that I need to cry — maybe it’s that my current damming is creating this need to blame my inability to move forward on the fact that I can’t cry. Maybe it’s just another way I’m trying to make sense of the stuckness.