Today when I got home, I just cried and cried and cried.


I don't know what the trigger was, but I cried. 



It was the first time in ages that I cried like that; not from happiness or empathy, but from pain.

And to have all that bottled up pain be released should have been a relief.




But it wasn't. 





All it did was hurt me more. 





Why?
Because I was alone.



Rather than having someone help me tip the bottle and support me whilst I gently poured out the contents, I, alone, let the bottle slip from my grasp and watched it shatter.  

Then I had to pick up the shards of glass by myself, and rebuild the bottle.

And that process hurt more than the pain once contained inside that bottle.



So what did I do?
I continued crying for hours and hours on end.



And the scary thing?
I couldn't stop.




See, this is why I'm afraid to cry.