Don't Cry for Me - Again

A few years ago I wrote a blog called Don’t Cry for Me about emojis.  

Crying emojis, specifically, because my posts about the Chiari malformation were making people cry.

The blog Divine Intervention, in particular, got the faucets running. I wasn’t trying to upset anyone. Actually, I was so damn excited to share the big moment that sent me on my healing journey that I hit the “publish” button with a triumphant flourish and waited for the applause.

So, so many big, blue tears streaming down tiny yellow faces filled my Facebook feed.

Baffled and a little disappointed that I wasn’t being received the way I intended, I asked my sister what the heck was going on. Why was everyone so upset?

Her answer surprised me. She said when she read Divine Intervention, it was the first time she realized how bad I really felt. She was upset that she didn’t see it because she would’ve been there for me if she knew how much pain I was in for so long.

Oh.

Showing up in life for the first time in a long time as I started to feel better, I forgot how much I retreated, how deeply I sunk into myself when the pain was at its worst. I think I mumbled some kind of apology to her after she told me how she felt. What I should’ve said was something like this:

You didn’t know because I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. When you’re sick of being sick the last thing you want is for everyone else fixate on the illness you’re already fixated on yourself. I didn’t want to be the sick person; the center of attention for having to sit with my head between my knees because someone at the table said something funny and the simple act of laughing caused intense pain. So I pretended it was normal to sneak a pull off a bottle of cough syrup in the middle of dinner, like an alcoholic nonchalantly sipped on their flask, and bowed out of commitments whenever I could to avoid ruining the party with a coughing fit. I just wanted to live without first asking the question, “Will this hurt me?” and enjoy simple pleasures like sitting up in bed in the morning without the familiar rush of pressure and pain at the base of my skull.  

I watched my dad, who never complained a day in his life, draw up his shoulders after a cough to wait for the “ice cream headache” to go away, and figured it was my lot in life. I’m working to change it now, but back then when it seemed hopeless, the last thing I wanted was to intrude on anyone else’s life the way a tiny—though rather severe—brain migration intruded on mine.

That was before. Things are different now, and the lens through which I see the world has changed. I still don’t want anyone crying for me. I’m the lucky one. It’s been a rough go, BUT I’d still be staring at a blank page if it weren’t for backhanded blessings like the Chiari malformation. I never would’ve discovered my love of documentaries, become well-versed in all things Wayne Dyer, or had the courage to quit my job and trust the process to unfold. I wouldn’t have discovered the wisdom of visionaries like Paramahansa Yogananda, the healing science of Dr. Joe Dispenza, used essential oils for anything other than making my house smell nice, or tested my own potential. I wouldn’t have learned forgiveness, crawled out of grief, or recognized the small miracles that color my life when I least expect them but need them most.

I never would’ve had the inspiration to put this in print, or the courage to share it.  

Without the pain—physical, emotional, real, or imagined—I’d be alive, but never really living. The Chiari, the struggle, the fear woke me up.

So, I’ll say again what I said the first time around: don’t cry for me. Read me. Share me. Shake your head at my poorly-timed f-bombs. Whatever you want—but don’t cry. I’m good here. Even on the worst days, I’m really fucking good.