Dating : Cry

Crying was a foreign concept to Marsha, who had it drilled into her from an early age that crying was a form of weakness, never show anyone anything other than strength or they will take advantage of you. She rode this all the way to the top of her chosen field, but as a result, it never occurred to her that this could not be any type of life if you can’t show your emotions, sometimes even the strongest of us need help and someone we can lean on.

She received the news at work of the tragic deaths of her husband and child in a car accident, even at the morgue when she identified the bodies, she kept everything bottled in behind clenched jaw and fists. At the funeral, with all her friends and people she had power over her at her job, she would show no emotion. Her parents were there watching, and she could not disappoint them.

Marsha was successful in keeping up the veneer of stoicism in front of everyone for months afterward, but alone at home, she was a wreck. Self-medicating to the end of various bottles, she could not bring herself to use her employer’s employee assistance program for grief counseling. That too would show weakness.

But unfortunately, her work suffered, and eventually, she lost her job. The bank would eventually foreclose on the mortgage. She had burned through the life insurance payout with all her bills and alcohol-fueled depression. She had attempted to access the savings portion of her life insurance — they had built it up to forty thousand dollars, but that was not available. Being that it was a whole life policy when she cashed out on the fifty thousand dollars in life insurance, the savings were surrendered to the insurance company — they had stolen her money and now she was destitute.

After her car was repossessed, she had fallen so low, the only job she could get was as a night attendant at a gas station that a high school friend owned. He had taken pity on her; he knew what she went through, and gave her a job that would enable her to pay for rent, food, and most importantly no alcohol. The job paid slightly above minimum wage, affording her an apartment in a run-down apartment building full of rats and cockroaches. At least she was close enough to walk, so she had no worries about transportation.

Twenty-four months after her fall from heights, in the middle of her night shift a strange-looking man, dressed in robes, long white hair with a beard to match, came into the gas station. At the counter, he told her he had visions of her pain and grief and wanted to help. Not one who would believe in such foolishness. She told the man to leave.

With one hand, he grabbed both her wrists, holding them in a handcuff type hold. As she was about to scream and press the robbery button to summon the police, he pressed his free hand to her forehead. In a hypnotic voice that seemed to put her in a trance, he asked if she believed him now.

She moaned out, “Almost.”

He let her go and said, “Your training can now begin, I will have a taxi pick you up in the morning when your shift is done.”

She worked through the rest of the uneventful shift, and in the morning as she left the gas station and the sun rising above the horizon, it seemed like a cruel joke, her whole life for two years had been nothing but storm clouds and rain. The taxi was waiting for her, and against her better judgment, after all, what woman would accept an offer like that? She got in the cab and despite her exhaustion managed to stay awake the whole drive to her destination.

The door to his home opened as soon as she stepped up to it without her having to knock. A little wary, she went in. How much worse could her life get. There were meditation beads hanging from the ceiling, and the burning incense was as soothing as the man’s voice when he spoke to her. He was seated on a meditation cushion in the middle of the living room, an empty cushion in front of him.

The man waved his hand, and the door closed behind her, “Do not worry,” he said, “you are on safe ground.” He pointed to the coat rack behind her and Marsha took off her jacket and placed it on.

“Join me,” he said.

He raised his hands and Marsha levitated off the floor and her legs crossed as she floated into the living room above the cushion and he lowered his hands to gently place her before him. The nervousness that tore through her was settled by the hypnotic tone of his voice.

She did his bidding when he asked her to place her hands in his. Immediately they closed their eyes in unison. He recited the vision that he saw, the tragedy she recently endured, the painful upbringing, never being able to fully express her emotions. But there was a block. She wasn’t ready to completely open up to him.

In her trance, she confirmed everything he told her, and he explained emotions were natural. It was not healthy to keep them bottled up. He implored her to let everything out, or the pressure inside would explode and destroy her.

Almost as if on cue, the floodgates opened in a torrent that seemed to have outdone all the waterfalls on the planet combined. He slid his arms around her, pulled her onto his lap, and stroked her hair and back, “Even one as strong as you needs help from time to time. No one can live in a box holding everything inside. Rest now and in the morning. It will be like you were reborn.”

Eight hours of sleep later, she woke up in a bed. It was the most restful sleep she had ever had, the only time in her life she ever slept for eight hours. And she did feel like she had been reborn. She vowed she would start a new life, with the help of this man who refused payment of any kind.