boys don't cry

nature or nurture? our any of our thoughts really our own?

10
that was the age i remember hearing from my parents—to hold in my tears. taught that crying meant weakness. taught that it opened me up to being hurt, to being taken less seriously, that it made me a baby. i didn’t want to be a baby, so i learned to stop the flow. eventually i got so good at it that i went years where the only time i allowed it was during the dark hours. when i could only hear the sounds of the city slumber. that was when i would grab my pillow to try to mask the sound, just in case. i would see those who could let it pour without shame, and i looked at them with judgment. like—did someone forget to tell them you aren’t supposed to do that? in public, at least.

17
one of the hardest years. i rebelled in quiet ways. i dressed how i pleased. i cried when i felt like it. and after my first panic attack—after a school dinner senior year—this anxious response came to follow me home. the place where emotions were examined then weaponized to fuel an argument. when i let it out, it led to my mother, instead of gathering me in an embrace and telling me it’s okay—what i received instead was much grimmer. an arm hovering over, continuously, then touching my skin. being true to my emotions meant getting met with violence. i didn’t tell anyone—instead i hid behind surface-level conversations about anything. because being real about my life meant i couldn’t escape into the delusional land i had created in my mind. one where each day had the possibility of burning brighter, as long as i believed.