An extract from my novel.
I was tired of crying. I felt the all too familiar sensation of tears readying themselves within me. I screwed my eyes up tight, refusing to let them roll down my face, as if it might make me stronger if I managed not to cry. I felt the tears burning my eyes and after a few seconds I relented. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks. Once I let them flow, they were encouraged at my vulnerability and they flourished all the more.
I tried to regain some sense of control before I lost it altogether so that these tears wouldn’t turn into gut wrenching sobs. As soon as that anguished moment came, when a sob let itself free, it was so hard to stop them. There were times I actually welcomed the tears openly and expectantly. A familiar friend who let me liberate the agony inside me; who let me feel my grief as raw as it was after having to force a smile and face the day.
Some nights the crying only stopped after exhaustion or once I had literally run out of tears to cry and I was left inconsolable with dry sobs still wrenching themselves free. How desolate and tormented I felt on those nights when the tears ran out before I fell asleep. Sometimes all I could hope for was at the very least to fall asleep before I fell apart any more.