The Plus Side of Being Able to “Bawl My Eyes Out”

A couple days ago my brother, Steve--who is one of the most precious beings on earth that I get to be related to biologically--shared with me a bit of what he was reading that morning. A man was told that he was thinking too much and needed to just cry instead. He was told that he didn’t have to figure out if they were tears of joy or sorrow or anger or anything—just to let himself cry for the release of it all.

Then my brother and I got into a discussion about what it means to cry. And that there is a big difference between having tears in one’s eyes versus letting them overflow all over the place.

Now, as anyone who’s read any of my previous posts can attest to, I am the poster child for being able to get the whole crying jag done properly.

I’ve done it so well throughout my life that I’ve felt more embarrassed and ashamed of it than proud. I literally bawled through my entire graduation speech and at least one other public speaking stint in my recollection. All my mom and sister and I ever had to do was to see the other one crying and, well, we were ankle-deep in tears and snot, and laughing at ourselves in the process.

Steve shared with me how it was to be a man—and how foreign and absolutely terrifying it was to even contemplate letting the tears loose from the eyes. I could feel the vulnerability and frustration in his words, of what it was like to grow up with the idea that “boys and men don’t cry” or “feel emotions.” That was one gift left to the realm of the female, at least, for the most part.

Not that “not crying” hasn’t crossed over into the female side of things either because I tried it, too, at one point in my journey. I talked myself out of crying through the Titanic—the numbness didn’t feel too good, and the movie haunted me for years afterward until I watched it a second time and allowed myself to dribble and sob all over the place with the allowance of feeling.

Steve said that even when he was someplace all alone, it still felt to him as if all the eyes of the universe were witnessing him at his utmost weakest—that he still didn’t feel safe enough to just let it loose. He can actually turn the tears off at will—like a water faucet—and my chest tightens with that stopping of the natural flow of things.

Our conversation got me to thinking back over the moments I’ve had with the men and boys in my life—I’ve seen tears in the eyes, but I don’t ever think I’ve heard one of them actually cry and sob while I was present. I get all choked up and suffocated-feeling just imagining myself in their shoes.

No wonder guys get all emotional and worked up over what I often think of as “silly” professional ball games. It’s an emotional release for them—a form of crying in a way accepted among most men.

I’ve gradually come to realize these past several years what a gift it has been to be able to be sensitive to feelings—even to find myself salt-watering everyone and everything around me at the seemingly most inopportune times. It truly is a release and a movement of stagnated energies within me. Life soon afterwards feels clearer and much easier, in that I breathe more freely.

I’m not a pretty thing when I’m in the midst of it, sometimes bellering at myself in the mirror. My eyes and nose are red and swollen, the Kleenex box (toilet paper roll, if I’m out) soon gets depleted, and the grimaces on my face would translate beautifully onto the screen for a horror flick—but I get ‘er done. I usually opt to cry things out in that safe, sacred space of my bathroom or my bedroom or out in the pasture if it’s handy.

And if the universe is tuned in to watch, well, they must see some value in it for themselves or they wouldn’t bother watching. Maybe it’s simply for pure entertainment purposes—but, hey, I can live with that. I think that just may be what I’m here for…