Bokelskere.no

I walk home in a sort of trance. It’s not until passing pedestrians give me double takes and odd looks that I realize I'm crying.
I don't try to stop.
I let the tears fall.
I cry for the girl I used to be.
I cry for me.
It's a foreign experience. Self-pity is not an indulgence that I allow myself. This doesn't feel like pity, though. It feels like self-compassion, and the realization makes me cry harder.
No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself. But I did. Tough love doesn't allow room for weakness, and tough love is all I've known. Maybe for now, just this once, I can experiment with a different kind of love. Something kinder.
I cry until my muscles ache, and then I cry more, like I'm letting out tears for a future sadness. People watch, and they whisper among themselves. A little girl points at me and asks her mommy what’s wrong with me, and the woman picks her child up and hurries away.
I see, and for the first time in my adult life, I don't care that I'm making a scene. I haven't hurt anyone. I shouldn't be ashamed. I shouldn't need to apologize. This is me.