In the 3 years I’ve known the Lt Col, I’ve only cried once. Really cried, I mean. And that was sometime during the second year, when Pooh-bear’s health had deteriorated to the point that I’d had to spend every possible minute looking after her. I was exhausted and the only thing I was looking forward to, was being able to die someday. I mean that in the literal sense, by the way. One day during a session, I was so exhausted (physically, mentally, emotionally) that I just broke down and cried for nearly the entire session — and I’m talking full on sobbing, not just the occasional stream of tears.
He was visibly surprised to see this, because the most he’d ever seen was a mild tearing up, which I’d quickly quelled. That was during a discussion about something my mother had done, which I may or may not blog about at some point. But generally speaking, I don’t tear up during sessions about anything, let alone start sobbing. I never cried when talking about being raped by the Serbian, nor the air force asshole. I did cry during a session a few weeks after Pooh-bear died, but only briefly. (That’s not to say I didn’t cry at home — I was pretty hysterical about that for the next few months and cried almost every day in private.)
But I do not cry in front of people unless something extreme is happening at that moment in time and, even then, it’s still highly unlikely that I would actually *cry*.
Sometime during the second year, the Lt Col asked me why I found the idea of crying in front of him to be so disconcerting and disturbing. I honestly didn’t have an answer right away, and had to think about it. After a few minutes of contemplation, I’d told him that it wasn’t that I didn’t *want* to cry. I would guess I feel the urge to cry more frequently than the average person, because I am extremely sensitive and insecure on the inside. Outwardly, however, I go to great lengths to avoid showing this side of myself to others.
Again, the Lt Col asked me why, and eventually I realized it was likely due to one of my mother’s disciplinary methods. My mother wasn’t the most traditional mother in America and her punishments tended to reflect that. Bear in mind that she was usually very high and I’m sure this had an impact on her unusual parenting style. She was also a genuine Sadist, and not only enjoyed inflicting pain, but also derived sexual gratification from it. A bit further down in this post, I will briefly touch on something that may be disturbing for some. I am not so bothered by it anymore, however, and if this was as far as it had gone, I’d probably be a very different person today.
As you may or may not already know, my mother had some anger issues. You name it, it pissed her off to the nth degree. When in that state, she couldn’t control herself. Her face would contort into something I’ve never seen elsewhere, although demonically possessed persons in horror flicks do come close at times. She would growl like a wild, rabid beast and then attack from all sides at the same time. She was a skilled boxer (I’ve seen her knock men out cold) and would punch, slap, kick, push and shove successively. If she knocked you down, she’d haul you back up and continue.
As a child, I was terrified of her. When I was really small, just one look was enough to scare me so badly that I would vomit. (Thankfully, I outgrew that reflex at some point.) Running to another part of the house was futile: I hid under my bed once and she literally kicked it apart because she couldn’t get at me underneath it. Then she beat the shit out of me for making her break the bed and I only had a mattress from then on. Not that it mattered much, since I’ve always had major issues with beds. Another time, I’d locked myself in my room, but she (again, literally) kicked the door down. And then beat the shit out of me for making her do it. Never had a door again after that.
So, even though it was difficult to stand and face her rage, I had learned that running away from her would only result in something far worse. While in that frame of mind, I would feel so helpless that I would just start crying. Some of that was fear-based, some of it was out of frustration over not being able to defend myself against her. She was just too big and too strong. Once the beatings would start, the sudden onslaught of pain would lead to my becoming hysterical. Crying, screaming, begging, you name it. Anything to make it stop.
It would continue for a time, and then at some point she would switch gears and focus on slapping. I would already have been crying to the point of hyperventilation by this time, and my vision would have been totally blurred from all the tears. The slapping was very, very hard and stung like a motherfucker. Even if such a slap wouldn’t cause direct pain in someone else, I suspect the eyes would reflexively respond with (at least) marginal tearing in most people. And that is precisely why she did it — because it was so hard to shut that off.
She would slap me while I was crying and then, with an evil smile and a mocking sing-song tone, she’d chant, “Don’t cry…” over and over again.
Even after I’d gotten used to this particular form of punishment and had time to prepare myself for it, I was never quite able to get a grip on the crying for the first 20 slaps or so. They just stung too damned much, and I was a total pussy. After every slap, there would be a 10 or 20 second interval, during which she would smile a terrifying smile and dig her nails more deeply into whatever part of my body she was anchoring me with at that particular moment. She always looked as though she was both enjoying and hating the experience at the same time.
She would pant and make strange noises during these episodes. I never quite figured out what they were exactly but, in retrospect, I suppose it may have been something to do with sexual arousal. I say this because, after I’d eventually manage to stop crying during any given punishment, she would drag me into her bedroom and make me stand next to her bed while she used a vibrator. Sometimes she would make me take Polaroids of her using it. When she was done with the vibrator, she would give it to me to put back in her drawer. Then she’d shoot up and pass out for hours and hours.
Again, this wasn’t the worst thing I’d ever experienced with her. I’m just blogging about my history here; I am not upset about this stuff.
Eventually, I managed to shut off the crying mechanism completely. This pissed her off and she moved on to more varied forms of punishment. The whole crying thing stayed switched off for a very long time, both when in private and when around others. In my 20s, that changed a bit, in that I could cry in private, but it was quite a rare thing as I wasn’t so attuned to my feelings back then. When I met the Professor, there was so much stress surrounding that relationship that I simply couldn’t cope with, and I cried a bit more frequently, though by no means often, and only out of extreme fear.
That is pretty much how I am today, as well. The difference is, I am more in touch with my emotions now, particularly after these 3 years of therapy, and I *want* to cry about some things. But I still can’t do it in front of anyone. Not even the Lt Col, and not even if I want to. He knows me well enough to know that I *want* to cry sometimes, but I just don’t. It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable around him; I do. Obviously. I just can’t cry in front of him. Thus far, my excuse has been that I don’t want to fuck my makeup up. (That, and my nose gets all red when I cry and stays that way for hours!) But he knows that is bullshit.
In the meantime, I guess those who know me will have to carry on thinking I’m incapable of anything beyond surface level emotions.
M.
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