On the night of car accident I cried on the side of the road while in the pitch blackness. I cried in front of the two ladies who comforted me after they told me I had hit the lady. I cried in front of the policemen who released my car so I could drive home. I told the policemen that I would cry tomorrow and the day after and the day after; and I did.
I cried in front of a chap at work, but I held back my tears when another chap at work sighed with incredulity and told me in front of a small group of coworkers, ‘… well it is not as if you killed her …’ as though this was an everyday event and I should just get over it. I walked away and cried.
Not all crying is visible. My heart aches and I cry inside. I see things and hear things and I cry inside. I have very little control over it, which I accept.
I really do not want to be amongst people who are not compassionate. I do not want sympathy, I have to recover on my own terms. I do not want to feel beholden to people so as to stop them from taken advantage of me – yes. I feel some have.
I enjoy solitude more than ever.
Strangers are good, they know me not.