Bittersweet

Something I've always loved, weirdly, is crying. I don't cry easily, and sometimes when I'm sad I just need to. But usually I can't. So when I do cry, it's for real.

And last night I had a good long one. The last time that happened, it was in Okinawa and it was for almost the same reason.

But whatever it was, I cried. And cried. It made my head ache and my airways thick and my eyes sting when I closed them, and it was awful. But it felt good. It felt good to be allowed to just be sad. I can't explain it. 

It was so bad that eventually my mom had to help me into my pajamas and make me tea to get me to fall asleep, something she hasn't done since I was a kid. Then she stayed in my room while I sat under my covers and held my steaming mug and just talked. We talked about other things. Things I wasn't crying about, but happy things. She let me ramble when I remembered different happy memories from New York freshman year. She let me talk about whatever came to mind, and for once, I managed to ramble without finding something I was sad about. She stayed with me for an hour while I drank my tea. 

Before she came in, I had been content with the idea of satisfyingly crying myself to sleep in my pillows. But when she left, I was happy. 

I didn't think anything could pull me out, but I wasn't crying anymore, and I didn't need to.

I love her for doing that.