A Life More Complete Read Online Free PDF

words were repeated
several months later when I cried over the loss of my beloved cat Mitty and
again when I failed my drivers test. But the worst time was when my grandfather
died unexpectedly and suddenly. Ripping him from my life without warning, he
was gone without so much as a good-bye. I cried harder in those few weeks than
I had in my entire life, yet her face was absent and void of any feeling. She
never hugged me or attempted to calm me. This was her father, the man who
raised her, loved her, and took her in when she and her three small children
had nowhere else to go. Crying should have been a sign of respect and love, but
she couldn’t. And when I couldn’t gain my composure three weeks after his death
she smacked me so hard across the face that she left a handprint, a red, lumpy,
finger-shaped welt on my cheek, but still said nothing. I was stunned into
silence and knew when my grandmother died three weeks later I learned not to
grieve in any way that showed outwardly. When I walked out on my mother at
eighteen, I repeated these same words to her and left prefacing her statement
with, “Is now a time to cry?” She, of
course, said nothing. I was now crying for my job, my inability to let Ben in,
my lack of unconditional love, for Mitty and my grandparents and most of all
for all those moments I wanted to cry but couldn’t. My body racked with heaving
sobs.
      Ben pulls me in tighter to him, his arms
wrap around me so tightly I can barely pull in a ragged breath. I hear him
shush into my hair and it only makes it worse. I can’t believe I’m letting him
see me this way, so vulnerable and open. This is far too intimate and I want to
shut down. Yet, I can’t control myself.
    “I’m sorry,” I stutter through rough
uncontrolled sobs. “I just had a bad day at work.” As I speak I regain my
composure. I try to stand, but Ben won’t release me. His arms around me like a
straight jacket forcing me to stay. “Ben? Can I get up?” I ask quietly.
    “No. This is the most real you have
been since I met you. I never want to let go of you.” He kisses my head softly and
I want to tell him everything.
    “I haven’t cried in at least ten
years.” I quickly say before I can stop myself. “The last time I remember crying
was after my grandfather passed. After that—nothing.” I suddenly breathe
out, a long slow release and I realize I have been holding my breath awaiting
his response. He says nothing for several seconds.
    “Why?”
    I take a deep breath and prepare
myself for exposure. I haven’t spoken about my mother since I left home. “I don’t
know. I grew up in a house that was completely void of any emotion. My mother
was unable to deal with weakness or vulnerability, basically anything that
caused her to feel. She passed this on to my sisters and me. I don’t know if
she so much as passed it on or if it was forced upon us. We all became
self-soothers, finding ways to deal. My sister Rachel and I named our mother “Benign”
one night. It was the summer of ‘95. It was one of the hottest summers on
record. Our house had no central air because it was so old. Only two window
units. It really sucked. We sat on the roof outside my bedroom window because
the house was hotter than the air outside. We smoked a joint, laughing, we came
up with the nickname. Benign, like as in cancer. The kind that doesn’t kill
you, but still sucks really bad. That was our mother.” I shake my head against
Ben’s chest. “I guess we all deal with our demons in different ways, maybe some
less self-destructive than others. My repressed feelings manifest themself in
my OCD.” I sound like my therapist from my childhood and I pause wondering if
he’ll acknowledge what I just shared with him. He says nothing and I summon the
courage to continue. “I’m sure you’ve noticed my OCD. It’s hard to hide, kind
of embarrassing for the person who witnesses it.”
    “It’s lessened over the last few
years. Hardly