A cool wind blew, causing goose-bumps to crawl up my arms. The thin tarp above my head gave hardly any protection from the rain that was now pelting the ground, mimicking the tears that fell freely from my eyes. It felt as if the world was mocking me. I was surrounded by a small crowd of mourners, most of whom I didn’t recognize at all, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs. I knew it was only a matter of seconds before I lost it. Concluding that it was best to take my chances at escaping, rather than to break down in front of everyone, I took off. I bolted from the graveyard, into the church, locked myself in a bathroom stall, and allowed myself to completely come undone. I chocked on my own sobs until I heard a light rapping at the door.

“I know you’re in there, Tori. Please come out.” My mother’s voice was strained.

“No. Go away.” My voice broke and I let out a small sniffle. I was no longer bawling, but my chest still rattled with uneven breaths. Tear stains were clearly marked upon my cheeks.

My mother sighed from outside the door, “Crying in a bathroom stall won’t help a thing.”

I knew she was right, I just dreaded the thought of anyone witnessing me in the state I was in at that moment. They’d look at me with pity, and God knows I hate it when people look at me like that. It makes me feel so small and helpless. However, I couldn’t hide in a bathroom stall forever. I slowly stood, and with shaking hands, unlocked the door to find my mother looking at me with sorrow-filled eyes.

People always said my mother and I looked alike, and in that moment I couldn’t agree more. Our eyes were bloodshot and watery, underlined with dark circles. Skin pale, lips quivering. The death of my grandmother had left us both drained.

My mother wrapped her arms around my shoulders, cradling my frail body, but the actions were hardly soothing.

“C’mon. Let’s go home.”

For the next few days, all I could muster the energy to do was lie in bed and stare at the ceiling fan. My blankets couldn’t provide to me the comfort they usually did. Even the saddest music there was couldn’t arouse any type of emotion in me. I was completely and utterly empty. I didn’t want to step outside, or draw, or play my guitar or sing, or anything that made me feel even remotely happy.

I didn’t want to be happy. I was so full of joy when Grandmother was around. She was on the road to recovery from lung cancer, but one night she had suddenly taken a turn for the worst. I was on my way to the hospital to visit her the next morning when she died.

I learned that happiness is such an unstable emotion. Everything can come crashing down in an instant, leaving you with no direction or motivation. I knew that remaining in a state of hollowness was my method of preventing me from feeling any further pain. However, one day I grew tired of feeling nothing. I decided that if I couldn’t bring myself to talk about my problems, I’d find another outlet.

So I wrote.

At first, my attempts at journaling were awkward and forced. But once I realized that an empty notebook is not one to judge, I completely let go. I wrote about how I felt like I was drowning in sorrow for a good while. I reminisced in memories I shared with Grandmother and described how I longed to relive them. I wrote about anything and everything to release all that I keep bottled up inside of me. I found my escape.

Today, I picked up my journal, and wrote of something I never had possessed the courage to write about before. It began, “A cool wind blew, causing goose-bumps to crawl up my arms…”