Crying is perfectly natural and normal. It is a way to let anger, sorrow, and misery out of your system in a harmless manner. No one is a victim of a bad act.
I cried a lot when I was born, like every child does to show that they are normal human beings. I cried when I was months old because of hunger since I hadn’t by then graduated to talking, even meaningless words that made no sense. I cried when I was punished for being naughty, and when mom would leave me to go to town. With her around I felt safe and secure.
I cried when I witnessed people’s lives taken in front of me at a very, very young age. No one survived among them. No one made it in one piece. There was no narrow escape. This incident has been my worst nightmare until this very day. I tried to forget about it, but it comes back at night in my dreams. I can’t control my dreams.
I cried when my father abandoned me and my mother back in 2010. His only family. He was taken by tourist girls’ beauty as if it was the only beauty on earth. That was very low. That move he made tops them all in being the worst.
I sobbed when my brothers were taken away from me by thugs in suits. No one bothered to listen to me. They all said it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that doesn’t come around very often. I told them that the men were bad news. They all replied that bad news was good news in disguise, in unison. I never saw them again. I used to cry until my eyes turned crimson red.
I used to cry when my mother would not listen to me when I had essential news to share with her. I was the youngest anyway, not strong enough to be heard. I felt like an outcast. I felt like I was in a crowded room shouting at the top of my lungs, but my mother wouldn’t even look at me. Isn’t ever mother’s duty to listen to their children even when they speak gibberish?
I have wept enough now. I’m not crying anymore. I have to be strong. A man doesn’t cry, or so I was told. Crying sometimes isn’t worth it.