For once, I know exactly why I am crying.

a cure for what ails you, abuse, ptsd, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, self-harm, suicidal ideation, three hopeful thoughts

A Sylvia Plath tattoo blog on Tumblr reblogged my thigh piece with the entire poem (“Elm”) attached…and reading it actually made me cry.

For the first time in my life, I am weeping for everything that’s happened to me over the last 24 years, all the pain and heaviness and self-doubt from the horrifying amount of unimaginably cruel things that have been done to me (and that I’ve done to myself as a result). I am finally allowing myself to feel everything that I’ve repressed over the years because I was scared to let it out, terrified to lose my tightly-wound control even for a second.

For once, the tears aren’t the product of a chemical fluctuation in my brain. They’re cathartic and even though I can’t seem to stop, I’m not all that freaked out. I know this crying jag is of the good, healing variety. Experience isn’t the source of this knowledge—it’s a sign that I am finally beginning to trust my therapist, my husband, my friends who have told me all along that it’s better to let it out than to hold it inside.

I’ve been turning that pain inward for over two decades and somehow have not destroyed myself yet.

I am crying for Sylvia Plath. I am crying for my mother. I am crying for myself. I am crying for every person who has ever been a victim. I am crying for every person who is trying not to be a victim.

I am trying not to die.

Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults 
That kill, that kill, that kill.”

I am completely baffled by the fact that I’m still alive, still breathing even though there are days when every single breath hurts and every thought, every second of every minute of every hour is occupied by a battle of wills—resisting the urge to run a bath and grab a knife or stop casually poisoning myself and finally get the job done.

For the first time, I know I’m going to live and that thought doesn’t scare me.

The “Oh Shit, I Cried at Work!” kit.

major depression, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, self-harm

The authoress, looking rather dour with her collection of red pens.

It’s one of the Deadly Sins for a young professional but lately, I seem to be spending a lot of time crying in my office with the door closed. I suppose it’s to be expected, given the depressive relapse and all, but I dislike weeping away the makeup I applied that morning (in less than ten minutes–ask me how!) Last week, it became pretty obvious that something had to be done, and since I can’t magically fix my brain chemistry, I decided to whip together a kit that would help me put myself back together–visually speaking, at least.

I picked up the magical box and all the swag it contains at Dollar Tree, because I feel like a quick fix shouldn’t cost that much.

The Kit’s contents

My Kit contains:

  • One compact, which I desperately needed anyway because I’m vain and am also prone to smudging my eye makeup when my allergies flare, and I don’t always like taking the time to walk to the actual bathroom.
  • One mascara. Dollar Tree makes the best mascara I’ve ever tried, no lie.
  • Black liquid eyeliner, which actually came in my Birchbox this month–score!
  • Lip stain, to make myself feel extra-pretty even when I feel like a rotten bag of ass.
  • One eye shadow palette. Supposedly, browns/reds are supposed to make blue eyes “pop.” It usually just makes me look like I’ve been crying and/or haven’t washed my face in forever, but I’m willing to give neutrals another chance.
  • A manicure kit. I work with giant stacks of paper all day, which makes me rather prone to hangnails. I’m not a nail-biter, so my options were to bite the bullet and purchase a kit to keep in my desk or risk having to suffer until 5:00 with raggedy nails and cuticles.

I’ll probably add to it at some point, but in the meantime, it’s there if I need it and contains the basics. I’ve been depressed for over half my life now and went through an abusive relationship in my late teens, so I’ve gotten pretty good at not completely messing up my makeup every time I cry. But sometimes, I’ll get a smudge or end up crying off just enough of my makeup that I walk around for the rest of the day mortified that my face is bare.

Are there any fellow at-work criers out there? I feel terribly unprofessional when I do it (because it probably is), but sometimes you just can’t stop the tears, you know? Additionally, does anyone have any tips for not crying that they’d like to share? I’ve tried the looking-up trick, but that only works about 50% of the time for me.

Here’s a gratuitous shot of my desk (and photographic evidence of my monstrous sweet tooth) because I can’t think of a halfway decent conclusion to this post.

Picture cube featuring some family (my late great-aunt, my husband, and our cats), John Lennon cup, migraine meds, my hemp lotion (which I swear by), and the quail-shaped aftershave bottle my best friend gave me a couple of years ago