I’ve never been one of those manly men who felt crying somehow made you less of one. I always thought I was fairly emotional, in fact. I’d have regular crying spells well into my teens. As I got older (and happier), this diminished — probably along with the last trickles of pubescent hormones that were the catalyst in the first place. In any case, I had plenty of experience breaking down in public as a child, and far from scaring me in some way, I now feel empowered to express myself come-what-may.
When K__ and I split, I fully expected to spend some (a lot of) time crying myself to sleep, rocking back-and-forth in the corner, etc. When it actually happened, the only thing I felt was alternating numbness and nausea. Was this some kind of sub-conscious, mental-health defense mechanism? Was I now one of those jaded, broken people I see in the street and had sworn to never become? A week went by. A month. A year. Still haven’t cried — about K__.
A few nights ago, I realized that I’d been brought to tears at least three times in the last twenty-four hours:
- Ray Charles singing “It’s Not Easy Being Green”
- A documentary short about a tattooed hipster in Portland putting his sick dog to sleep. I don’t even like dogs.
- An obviously emotionally-manipulative Youtube piece about a quadriplegic-eque man who gives inspirational talks to school kids. I’ve apparently lost my immunity.
It’s good to know I’ve not lost this part of myself, but I can’t help but wonder why this is happening now.