Here’s a hint; don’t tell me not to cry. Don’t tell anyone not to cry. Not your girlfriend, not your baby, not your little brother. I’m so good at demonizing my boyfriends that I’ve begun to demonize myself for it. But so far, it has been the most effective way for me to be effective. I am not a writers’ writer, a musician’s musician, or a girl’s girl. (There should be a one syllable word for adult female. Besides bitch).
But I do know that in my moments of hysteria, I have gotten so good to come out of my body and look at the situation as an opportunity for an art piece. I stop myself from crying. I don’t want to do that anymore.
My mother would leave the room when I was a baby and I would cry. I was the family’s cry baby. I was the little worry wart. Everyone’s choice way of soothing me was to tell me not to cry, to tell me everything is all right, that my mother will be right back.
Growing older into a musician, my mother would tell me in my tearful times that this is all fuel for my work. The boyfriend I saw the longest would call me crazy when I cried (or yelled or felt jealous or annoyed) and so I learned that many people do see emotions as crazy and with future boyfriends I’ve sometimes felt like putting a cap on my emotional outbursts.
But I don’t want to stop, and I don’t want to turn it into some kind of art form for a while. I want to feel. I want to cry.
I want to smash glasses when I’m mad, I want to pull out my hair when I’m frustrated, and I want to cry while I pace my house all over while holding my heart with one hand and my head with the other. I want to scream and not worry about waking up the boyfriend in my bed. I need this time. I need this time to cry alone, because as good as it is to have someone to comfort me, it is just as good to lose it when no one is watching.
I can remember specific cries I’ve had in this house. One when I had tell my mother something awful I can’t tell you about, one when I came back here after a long time, one when I found out something that reminded me of the first thing.
It is so utterly ugly when I cry. I always pace, or end up on the floor. I beat my heart like like I’m knocking frantically on a door. I blow my nose a thousand times and discard the tissues in a big pile next to me. My face becomes red and pimply and my lips get thinned and my head gets wrinkled.
But the beauty is that no one is watching me. No body is worried or thinking I’m being dramatic or conjuring up ways to relieve me of my pain. And I can allow myself to make these horrible sounds, these ugly faces, and they are just for me. They are just for my relief.
So tonight, when he told me not to cry, a different part of me became sad. The part where I had to control myself, so that he could sleep, so that he didn’t think I was being nuts. He is sweet. He said, “remember you can wake me up, anytime, for any reason. Even if that reason is to ask me if there is a grape flavored starburst.” He has been wonderful and I have been able to be much more free with my moods and emotions than any lover in the past. But tonight, when panic started entering and the tears were falling and he calmed me down, I felt unfulfilled.
I realized I really could’ve used a good cry, and I’m looking forward when I can do it freely. When I can indulge in my ugliness, my crying masturbation. My hysteria. When I can release whatever sorrows or plain dramatic motions without having anyone to add drama to it.
The next time I need to cry, I’m going to go for it. I’m going to have a fit. And I’m not going to stop and think about the situation of what got me upset and try to put it in a song, or calm myself down by calling a friend. I’m going to calm myself down by going through it. By crying up a storm. Because I decided that it feels good. In a weird way, crying is just so good.