One day I was crying in my psychiatrist’s office. Not just weeping. I was sobbing. Blubbering. Boo-hoo-hooing.

I don’t remember why. It isn’t relevant.

On the rare occasions I’ve cried like that, a snapshot of my maternal grandmother flickers in a cranny of my mind. She died when I was nine. She treasured me. I wasn’t allowed to attend her funeral. Never able to grieve for her. I rarely cried after that.

I’ve learned that when I crumble into tears as I did that day, it’s a signal. Some ancient anguish is surfacing, but I can’t for the life of me piece together its meaning.

Snivelling and  littering Dr. Bob’s desk with my tear-soaked tissues, his tissues from the box he keeps there, I was apologizing profusely.

“What happens when you peel an onion?”

After several moments, he said. “You know, we’re all like onions, and you know what happens when you peel an onion.”

“You cry,” I answered. Obviously.

“Why do you think you cry?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, soaking up the downpour that was washing away my face. “Never really thought about it. It’s hard. Frustrating. Awkward. Sometimes it hurts. It’s painful. And you’re working from the outside in.”

“Yes,” he said. “Go on.”

“It’s kind of like the therapeutic process, isn’t it?” I said.

Dr. Bob smiled…