I cry a lot. About big things, about little things.
I cried when I broke the zipper on my new-to-me vintage leather pencil skirt, rendering it useless.
I cried when that fool in the Ford Escape sideswiped me on the entrance ramp to the Major Deegan Expressway, almost taking my side mirror with him, leaving my wheel-well crumpled in his wake.
I cried when I accidentally sliced my fingertip open while peeling and chopping a butternut squash for a stew I was cooking. (it hurt!)
I cried when a client called me a stupid bitch as I exited my workplace. I sat in my car, shaking, until I decided to do some ujjayi to calm myself down.
I cried when I heard him say, “How are you doing, beautiful? You smell so good.” And he wasn’t talking to me.
I cry whenever I can’t find something I need in the abyss of my overcrowded bedroom, whether it is a book or a pair of gym socks or my tan sweater with poofy sleeves from H&M that I haven’t seen in over a year.
I cry every time Elise tells David, “I’m coming with you.”
I even cry while watching “Say Yes to the Dress.” When a bride says yes, my eyes get foggy.
I like to think that I cry freely, but I don’t.
I cry frequently, I’ll admit. But I’m usually annoyed with myself for crying. In my head, my mother’s words echo: “Is yuh mudda dead? Is yuh fadda dead? No? So what yuh crying for? Doh mek me give yuh something to cry about.” (Translation: Is your mother dead? Is your father dead? So why are you crying? Don’t make me give you something to cry about!)
So I punish myself for my tears. I call myself names.
Silly girl, stop crying.
You’re so stupid. Stop crying.
Immature crybaby. Stop crying.
The other day, I read an excerpt of Curious Behavior: Yawning, Laughing, Hiccupping, and Beyond on Brain Pickings (where else? Maria Popova is the ish!). An explanation of why human beings cry:
As an adult, you cry much less than when young, and your crying is more often subdued, teary weeping than the demonstrative, vocal sobbing of childhood. . . [T]he trauma that causes your crying is now more often emotional than physical. However, whether intentional or not, as adult or child, you cry to solicit assistance, whether physical aid or emotional solace. Paradoxically, your adult cry for help is more private than the noisy, promiscuous pronouncement of childhood, often occurring at home, where it finds a select audience.
My tears…are a cry for assistance.
I think I need to go back to therapy.
And just because I’m in a funky mood.
I miss Amy.