A Little Water Clears Us

I don’t cry very often. When I do cry, it’s an event. It’s intense. And it doesn’t leave my body for several hours. I might revert to a puddle without much warning.

My mother, a nurse, often reminds me that there is a correlation between crying and stress. There are proteins (or hormones? Can’t remember…) found in tears that build up within the body during periods of emotional stress. So when you cry, you’re basically releasing stress in liquid form. She says that the old adage, “have a good cry; you’ll feel better” is therefore scientific fact. I have a tendency to believe her.

In the movie Broadcast News, Holly Hunter’s character takes her phone off the hook for a few minutes each day and cries. I knew one person who cried in the shower. I have a history of crying as I pray. I think that tears are an important part of life. In fact, I wish I cried a little more often than I do. It reminds you that pain is real. It proves that you’re alive. It helps you to remember that things are going to get better, because eventually, you will stop crying. No one cries forever. To quote Regina Spektor, “people’s children die and they don’t even cry forever.” (Note: that’s from her song “Rejazz", which is an excellent break-up song, should you ever need one.) And, perhaps most importantly, it releases those hormones before they build up and cause physical pain (yes, that can actually happen).

I cried in June, while at a bar and intoxicated, because a guy stepped on my foot. Please note: I’m not pathetic. My feet had been through the ringer that day. I spent the whole morning and afternoon walking around the city in some horrible shoes. I went out and bought flip-flops to give my feet some relief. And then my foot had gotten caught underneath a revolving door, which was just as painful as it sounds. All this happened just a few hours before the drunken guy put all of his weight on my foot (which, I remind you, was in a flip-flop). And I’d been drinking. Additionally, this was about a week after my break-up, which was probably the real reason I was crying.

Before that, I don’t think I’d cried since the first week of March, when I had a complete breakdown and started yelling at my roommates. I’d been trying my best not to explode during February (as that month is always disaster and depression for me), and as a result I held some emotions in for longer than I should have. Turns out, my frustrations were not things I could just chalk up to my annual unhappiness.

I cried Sunday night. More than once, which is usually the case with me when I cry. I was in a discussion with a friend, and I spilled out onto the floor like a bag of marbles. I’m not even entirely positive as to what triggered it. I guess he said something that I knew was right, although I can’t remember now what that was. I just remember needing a hug. So I took the L over to the abode of the fellow I’m seeing. I showed up at his door, he let me in, and I promptly ensnared him in what I’m sure he realized was a vital hug. He obliged, and held me for as long as I needed (thank God… I hate it when you need a hug and the person hugging you starts patting you on the back – which is a subconscious sign that they don’t want to be hugging you – or tries to do that tight-squeeze-and-release thing to try to get you to let go). We then sat down on a bench on his portico, and he let me cry it out for awhile (which was crucial, as I couldn’t put my thoughts together at that moment anyway) before getting me to talk about what was wrong. After venting for a bit and finding myself unable to hit the root of the problem, I ended up clenched in the fetal position on his couch, trying to shake a migraine and feeling entirely vulnerable.

It was a night when I needed to cry. I’m not sure why… I think it was just the right time. Something set me off, and then I was a drainpipe, a sprinkler, a fountain, or some other plumbing contraption… Maybe it was something more severe than that. Harder to turn off… A typhoon, perhaps.

Here’s something weird: even while I was crying I was judging myself. Do other people do that? I was acutely aware of the fact that I looked a wreck while sobbing uncontrollably. I realized that there was no good reason for me to be hysterically weeping, and I felt pathetic for not being able to explain myself. And I kept thinking that the way I cry is embarrassing, and that I should try to come up with a new way (much as I have done with my laughter… I have about eight laughs, and I’m not happy with any of them… there’s a cackle, a squeak, a guffaw… none of them satisfying). The kicker to this, of course, is that the whole reason I began to blubber had something to do with a friend pointing out my lack of self-esteem and the general negativity I have attached to my self-image.

My friend theorizes that this is why I have difficulty taking compliments. It’s because I don’t love myself enough, and I don’t think that the positive things people say could possibly apply to me. The fellow I’m seeing, on the other hand, thinks I have trouble with compliments because I have trust issues. It’s probably some combination of both. And apparently, this topic of conversation is enough to cause me to be a sniveling, whimpering mess.

I like to think that I’m a pretty up-beat person (although I’m not sure you’d get a sense of that from my writing, as I use it as a method of venting). At work, my nickname is “Sunshine”, because they think I’m always cheery and energetic. I rather like that. I try to bring lightness to my workplace. Yesterday, I brought in cinnamon rolls, cookies, and some candy to try to lighten up a manic Monday. It was relatively successful. I keep a list of all the funny quotations I hear around my department and e-mail it out every couple of months when people seem down (a recent favorite was a conversation in which a coworker tried to convince me that someone’s brother was named “Danish”). I used to take a “dance break” at 3:37pm every day (actually, it was sometime between 3:30 and 4:15, but it became known as “the 3:37 dance break”). I put on a piece of music like “Do Your Thing”, and would dance around for one minute, and then go back to work. I mostly did it for the morale of my coworkers, so when one of them complained, I stopped (luckily, she just got a new job in another department and will be leaving at the end of the week, so my dance party can resume at its usual time and place. Woo-hoo).

Sometimes, I’m downright goofy. I like that side of myself (not as much as Story-Mode, but it’s still good). I have fun when I go to Meijer to ride the mechanical ponies or vibrating purple dinosaur. I always enjoyed singing along to Oldies radio at the top of my lungs with all the windows down in my mini-van. I like dancing while waiting in line at the post office. I like giving people stage kisses (the kind of kiss where your hand is in the way, so that you’re not actually kissing the other person) in the middle of the mall. I like playing “Never Have I Ever” in situations where it doesn’t seem appropriate (and I almost always win – or lose, depending on how you look at it – because I’ve never done anything. In fact, I just had a “Diet” soda-pop for the first time in my life on Saturday… Diet gingerale. It was part of a mixed drink, and purely unintentional on my part, but it happened. *sigh* At least I can still say, “Never have I ever had Diet Cola”).

I don’t do the “goofy” thing as much in Chicago as I do in Michigan. It was a little depressing to acknowledge that yesterday. Maybe I’m not as happy here as I should be. Maybe I’m not as comfortable being myself. But then, half the time I’m not even sure who the *bleep* I am anyway.

I wish it would rain. There has been some wicked rain here this summer, which I have delighted in. I put on my puddle-jumping shoes and a smile (ah, a brief return of silly, goofy me). I love rain. Somehow, rain makes me feel relieved. It reaffirms my faith. God is washing away all the problems and making everything clean, bright, and ready to grow. It reminds me that everything is going to be alright. God has a plan, and he’s not going to send me anything that I can’t handle.

Rain often seems to come when I need it the most, as if God is reaching out to comfort me. Once, as I was walking out of a disappointing audition, it started to rain. I walked for about half a mile, thinking about what had just happened. I realized that it didn’t matter. I knew somehow that it was for the best. I turned my face to the sky and said, “It’s alright, God. I understand. I don’t need the rain anymore.” I swear to you, the rain stopped instantly, just as quickly as it had started. I started to laugh. I laughed until I could taste my tears. (In case you wondered, I was cast in that show in a role I’d never pictured myself in. It turned out to be a perfect fit.)

Unfortunately, it isn’t supposed to rain this week. As much as I would like to be drenched by it, I might not even get a drizzle. I’ll probably be fine without it. Then again, it’s Chicago, so who knows?

It just occurred to me how strange it is that someone called “Sunshine” should be so in love with the rain…

May you learn that tears and rain are signs that laughter and sunshine are ahead.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. The title is taken from a line from The Tragedy of Macbeth ("a little water clears us of this deed" ~ Lady M), in case any of my fellow Shakespeare geeks are reading.