When the tears won't come - by Dennis Xiao

I used to wedge myself in my closet, even when I was too big to comfortably fit. Knees to my chest, packed between faded binders and worn children’s books. Clothes too big Mom said I’d grow into. An old blue Lego tub stuffed with Clone Trooper action figures. And sob in the darkness. Where no one could see my shadow. Not even me. In those moments, my emotions became too much for me to bear — even as I’d increased my threshold for suffering over the years. In the confines of my closet, the darkness, I felt the entire world bearing down on me. I needed release. I needed to cry. Most of all, I needed to be held. But wasn’t. // Growing up, I was sensitive and emotional. An empath. Deeply in tune with how others around me felt, especially when they were in pain. I must’ve been a therapy dog in another life — always knowing when to wrap you up in a warm embrace or lay my head on your shoulder. The stories Mom and 奶奶 (Nǎi nai — grandma) tell me now confirm the sentiment. And when I look at ol

I used to wedge myself in my closet, even when I was too big to comfortably fit. Knees to my chest, packed between faded binders and worn children’s books. Clothes too big Mom said I’d grow into. An old blue Lego tub stuffed with Clone Trooper action figures. And sob in the darkness. Where no one could see my shadow. Not even me. In those moments, my emotions became too much for me to bear — even as I’d increased my threshold for suffering over the years. In the confines of my closet, the darkness, I felt the entire world bearing down on me. I needed release. I needed to cry. Most of all, I ne