D.W. wants to cry. But she can't.
For the longest, she lets the overwhelming sadness consume her yet no tears come. Her heart aches restlessly but her eyes remain dry. Her adulthood was this listless rinse-and-repeat routine for her-she listens to her alarm, forces herself out of bed, hops in the shower, dresses in her scrubs, puts on this mask of professionalism, begrudgingly clocks in for another few hours of nursing patients to and from, comes home dead ass tired, forces herself to do up something quick for dinner all while allowing her own misery to operate from within for as ritual- (because what else can she do?) she felt her eyes water somewhat, but tears never came.
She missed how easy it was for her before. She longs for the days when emotions flowed freely, the way her tears fell like second nature, the way sobs poured out from her like clockwork. She remembers the days and nights where she cried until no sound came out. Oh how she wished to cry, to let go of the tears she held in for so long, to free herself from this sorrow, the weight that burdened her in her chest.
And yet she can't. It was like something was stopping her. Even in her darkest days, when the flashbacks and voices become far too much to bear than usual for her the tears never came. She never feels them outside of her eyes simply watering and it kills her. Something always keeps her from crying, she doesnt know what it is and it utterly scares her-the fear of not knowing what it was that consumed her became too much to handle and it kills her. She only ever feels frustrated, horrified, trapped with no hope of release.
D.W. wants to cry. But she can't.