Iris

The Crown Made of Thorns

I hate crying! That's insane, right? I was 11. I was playing with my friends, and some of them were slightly older than me, and they told me we would be playing a game, and suddenly one of the older sisters who was playing with us stood up and told us whoever won would be crowned with this beautiful paper crown. Everyone shouted, Hurray, sure, sure, and I was so happy. I am not even lying; I was so happy. After a few minutes, everybody held hands and made a circle, and I was just following what they were doing. Suddenly one girl who was a few years older than me dragged me to the middle of the circle. She said, Welcome, Iris, and I had no idea what was happening, and suddenly she placed a paper crown on my head, and I was so happy. Everyone clapped and started laughing, but. I had no idea why they were laughing. Suddenly the girl who crowned me spoke congratulations. Congratulations on being the crybaby. She told kudos for being able to be weeper-in-chief. I didn't get what was going on at first and was trying to process everything for the moment. And the giggles turned into mimicked sobs. They were pretending to cry—ugly, exaggerated sobs. It hit me like the bucket of cold water filled with ice in the winter season. So, this wasn't a game. This was a joke, and I was the punchline. Apparently, I cried too much over small things and over big things. I used to spill my emotions over the things that might not be a big deal to other people. I was loud, I was messy, I was expressive maybe a little more. I used to rant about everything, every feeling, to my mother. I also smiled with them by taking off the crown and holding the crown in my hand. I swear I couldn't laugh. My throat was burning. I remember I ran home without saying anything. I ran so fast. Opened the door, dang, my mother asked what had happened, but I replied, Nothing, Mom, I forgot something, and went to the other room. My mother told I am going to the market, ok? I have prepared lunch for you. Eat, ok?" I never wanted to be alone before this. I didn't rant about what has happened to me with my mother. I didn't say a word to anyone. I went to the other room and started to cry, and I cried a lot, like a lot. I cried and cried. I sobbed for so many hours, and I wept alone. For the last time, I cried too much. That was just a part of the joke for them, but that joke implanted a non-recurable fear in the brain of an 11-year-old child, which has not healed to this day. Now she is 22 and still holds that phobia. After that incident, I don't remember crying much. Even my close ones have seen me crying or being emotional 2-3 times throughout, and now they call me cold. I am not cold. I am not unemotional. I am scared. Scared that if I let my emotions surface, they will be dismissed. I was a chaotic child. But over time, I learned that my emotions were too much for others. The transformation wasn't a choice ; it was just a shield for the protection of my inner child. To be seen and heard like that sometimes might result in distance with feelings. Is this correct?