In August, my first-ever encounter with Covid unraveled like a relentless symphony of affliction. It commenced with a scratchy, persistent sore throat—a sandpaper grit echoing with each painful swallow. It felt like invisible hands were kneading my muscles with unforgiving fingers, every movement accompanied by a chorus of discomfort reverberating through my entire being.
Confined to bed for two days, I sought refuge in sleep, hoping to lull away the symptoms. As I emerged, on the surface, I was on the mend. Yet, the insidious fatigue lingered, weeks passing before its weight finally lifted, allowing me to confront other lingering effects, particularly my eyes.
Initially, it masqueraded as allergies—itchy, watery eyes resistant to the soothing promises of allergy eye drops. However, it escalated. I’d wake up with swollen, itchy eyes that eventually ceased watering. A month later, the realization struck when I reached out to my eye doctor—I hadn’t shed a tear since this affliction began. My eyes, swollen, itchy, and painfully dry, betrayed an inability to cry, a departure from my emotional norm.
Before this ordeal, my relationship with crying was robust, with tears flowing effortlessly, given my heightened sensitivity. The therapeutic power embedded in shedding tears became apparent in my life, a release mechanism for emotions past and present.
Years of suppressing tears led me to a juncture where inducing them became a necessary ritual. Even revisiting reliable tear-inducers failed to restore the once familiar deluge; if lucky, a single tear replaced the Niagara Falls-like cascade of the past. Admitting my newfound incapacity to cry, given my pre-Covid prowess, felt strangely surreal.
Overthinking seized me—would this endure indefinitely? Had I exhausted my allotted tears, or was the inability to cry an enduring souvenir of Covid’s aftermath? My eye doctor’s reassurance about my tear reserve offered little solace, attributing my struggles to evaporating tears rather than diminishing emotional capacity. Limited by breastfeeding, I resorted to eyedrops and heated compresses instead of medicinal interventions.
Post-Covid, the inability to cry transcended physical pain; it metamorphosed into an emotional barricade. As someone navigating life with heightened sensitivity, tears became trusted companions in processing intense emotions. The void left by their absence became an unsettling companion, intensifying discomfort as the unfulfilled desire to cry persisted. In this emotional vacuum, the significance of tears in my mental well-being came to the forefront, emphasizing their role in providing the relief I now yearned for.
Months elapsed, yet crying remained an elusive ability. The persistent desire, thwarted by my body’s refusal, plunged me into a newfound desperation. The tears, once taken for granted, now held an intensity of cherishment I had never imagined.
In the resonance of unshed tears, an unforeseen strength emerged—a silent resilience whispering through the dryness of my eyes. Even in the absence of tears, my ability to weather and embrace life’s storms endured.