Crying on the inside

I wrote the following some time back in June. Having just re-read it, I decided now was as good a time as any to post it. It arose out of an article I read (there's a link below). You might want to read the article first...

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It seems to me that tears are a very misunderstood thing. If you look miserable, someone, somewhere will probably say “cheer up, things might be worse”; (and being of a flippant turn-of-mind – that phrase always makes me think: “so I cheered up, and they were right… things were worse.”) But you try not to be flippant, or rude; so you give them a wan smile, and agree – things could be worse. But inside you’re crying – crying for the loss you just experienced, crying for the pain you’re in, crying for the loneliness you feel, crying for any one of a million reasons of which this person knew nothing. On the other hand, if you plaster a smile onto your face, someone, somewhere, will come up and say “what have you got to be so happy about, don’t you know the world’s going to hell in a hand basket.” So you wipe away the smile, and agree that yes, the world is indeed in a bad place. But inside you’re crying – crying because you haven’t got whatever it takes to cry on the outside, crying because no-one noticed how false your smile was, and all the pain it was hiding.

I started thinking about this when I read an article that one of my friends posted on Facebook: https://nadirahangail.com/2016/05/25/mind-your-own-womb/

It speaks of the pain of three different types of women: (1) the 30-year-olds who’ve been trying for a baby for a long time, but no success; (2) the 34-year-olds with 5+ children castigated for ‘over-populating’ the world; and (3) the 40-year-olds who only have one child, an unexpected miracle… but wanted more.

It made me think of adding another section: the 60+-year-olds, with no children, and for whom the chance has gone. It might go something like this:

A 60-year-old woman, no husband, no children. “You’re so good with children. Why didn’t you ever have one of your own?” “Oh, no particular reason” she replies with a smile. But on the inside she’s crying – crying for the babies she never carried; for the husband she never met; for the illness that dried up her womb; for the God-children that never came her way; for how alone one feels without a family round you; for the lifetime connections she never made with other people; for the fiancé she lost in the war; for the man who hurt her so deeply she found it hard to trust men again; for the beating she received that damaged her womb for ever; for the rape that built a barrier between her and everyone else. She cries for the virginity she’s lost to men who don’t care. Cries most of all that it’s too late, and there will be no more chances.

These aren’t all me (well, maybe one or two). I see people around me who carry these griefs with them. I’ve never forgotten the despair in the voice of some friends, many years ago, as they said, “It’s the crashing disappointment, month after month, as you realise that once again you’re not pregnant.” In that situation all we could do was love them, and pray for them; our prayers for them were answered – not everyone gets such a happy ending.

The spectrum of how women (and men – don’t forget they too suffer some of this) cope with this situation is broad. At one end, some women learn to live with the pain of childlessness with grace and dignity; somewhere in the middle are the rest of us; and finally at the other end of the scale are the women who become so disturbed they need psychological help. Each person in this situation will fall somewhere along this coping spectrum; wherever they are, each one needs love, support and maybe healing.

We can cry out all our grief to God as we lie in bed at night, and he will bring comfort. But that comfort can soon be shattered as once again we are confronted by a friend’s new baby (or worse – new grandchild) and inside, something dies just a little. We find ourselves torn between rejoicing in the joy of our friends, and once again facing the fact that it’s too late for yourself.

I don’t have any amazing conclusions, or bright insights to offer. I don’t know how we can heal this amount of pain. But I do know that our God is a place of refuge, and a source of healing.