I Was 16When I was 16 years old my favorite uncle died. There were no men in the family, so for some reason I thought I had to be strong for my mother, aunts and cousins. And being strong meant not crying...not crying at all, even when I was alone.
The next time I cried was almost ten years later. They were tears of joy, but crying those tears also let the past ten years of repressed ones flow as well. What a relief, and what a lesson!
And now I cry at the drop of a hat. Happy tears, sad tears, sometimes just tears for no apparent reason. For that I make no apology and never will.