A journal of my one hour cry.

A journal of my one hour cry

Just like that, looking at the Whatsapp notification triggered something in me, and I suddenly sobbed.

Irritated at myself, I asked—why the heck am I crying? I know it’s not because of the Whatsapp message. So, what the heck is happening?! And I sobbed even more.

I don’t know why I felt so sad. Over what?

It’s like a million things which I never cried over—surfacing to hit me all at once. These cries that I’ve silenced—being regurgitated from my gut. And I no longer wanna stop them.

I felt like I don’t wanna muster the energy to stop them. I don’t wanna take deep, sharp breaths and suck it in. I don’t wanna find something to busy myself with and distract from what is surfacing.


For the first time, I felt like this is what a cry deserve. A voice. A vessel. A channel.


For a cry to be a cry—tears, sobs, and snots. Nothing can do but that.

Not writing; not talking/Whatsapping to someone; not praying; not reading the Bible; not eating good food; not drinking; not running out a good sweat; not cursing; not venting out anger; not watching Frasier; not toughening up. But, letting crying be crying.

So, I cried. While crying, I still don’t know what the heck is the one thing that is making me so sad that I’m crying like this. But, I can’t stop.

It felt like I cried out every logic and every will.


I cried out the deaths, the losses, the cuts, the pains, the confusions, the rejections, the injustices, the prejudices, the burdens, the loneliness, the sadness. Of others, and of mine.


I felt my eyes stinging. My cheeks sticky and a bit singeing from the streaks of salty tears. My head hurts. My gut tired from the upheaving, and empty from the missed dinner. My shoulders slumped. Heart, wrenched.

But the sadness still lingers on. So did my cry. I paused and quieted down, then another wave of sadness overcame me, and I cried again. It went on and on in this rhythm for more than an hour.

In my heart, I know—this unashamed crying is possible because I’m at home and there’s no one around.

Although I can share my feelings, I hold back in crying like how I did—even when I’m alone, but especially with people around.

Maybe unconsciously, it feels like my last defence is gone—if I allow myself to crumble and cry like that.

At the end of the one hour, I still have no idea what happened. What is the real reason for that unusual cry?

A needed relief?
A reminder to let God?
A rest?

Only God knows.




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