The Universal Cry

I used to blame it on hormones, but now I suspect the Holy Basil. All day yesterday I was on the verge of tears for no obvious reason. As disclosed in a previous post, my anger addiction has subsided since I began popping Holy Basil twice a day. Something has to replace the anger, right?

And if the truth be known, I just realized that, for all intents and purposes, I have been free of any and all addictions for a couple of days now. For me, this is remarkable and surely can't last, but for now I'm off everything except Holy Basil. Whenever I dis-addict, I find myself flooded with previously repressed emotions, because, after all, the purpose of indulging is to numb.

I did drink a cup of coffee shortly before bedtime, which ensured that I would not sleep until dawn. I had to think of a way to pass time, and I wanted to cry and be done with it, so I thought of my final conversation with my mother before she died many years ago.

My mother had actually cried during that conversation, and it was the only time I had witnessed such an event (her crying). I come from a long line of very closed, tight, repressed, non-orgasmic women. Somehow I had summoned the courage to ask her if she thought she was going to die from the pancreatic cancer ravaging her body. That's when her tears emerged- the tears of a lifetime.

So I reviewed that rare occasion of communication with my mother, and yes, I cried profusely. I bawled. You'd think that would have been enough. But noooooooo. After a quick breather, I was presented with another tear-jerking memory, this time of my dear little Irish grandmother who died in my arms. (Lest I sound like a saint, let me clarify that I am normally not a very mature person. For me, Maturity waits in the wings until the chips are down and somebody's dying or something. Then, when it's all over, Maturity sneaks offstage.)

And apparently that wasn't enough. Before I knew it, I was going through my entire history of sorrow, from loss of life to breakups with boyfriends. I actually listed each profound incident of my life and systematically cried over each one.

I concluded this sobfest with my oldest memory. I was about 3 years old and in my crib, having been put to bed without my nightly Irish lullaby sung by my mother. I will never forget the despair of that endless night. She was mad at me and had withheld the lullaby as punishment. I cried at the top of my lungs and howled for dear life. Nobody came. I vowed to surround myself with lullabies when I grew up.

I am now dried out and exhausted from this emotional exercise. I'll have a hangover of sorts tomorrow (today). Is it possible that this is what living consiously entails? I need a lullaby...