Everyday NhanSense: Each day, I will blog about something that comes to mind. My goal is to practice writing about my hobbies, my interests, my opinions and so forth.
Day 48’s Topic: Crying.
I don’t cry very often. Correction: it’s more like it’s hard for me to as an adult.
I know it’s probably because I am a guy, and with that social stigma looming that says that guys can’t cry, I probably am conscious of keeping my eyes dry no matter how sad I get.
Allow me to explain. I can say with complete and earnest truth that I am not a crybaby, at least in the sense that I do not outright bawl my eyes out very often, if at all. So physically on the outside, I have not let the waterworks come rushing down the cheeks if I can help it.
Now excluding being a baby and a young toddler (every little kid cries, after all), I will admit I was a bit of a wimp at a young age. I do recall crying and hiding behind my mom when I entered first grade and such, but these kind of moments are common and not that big of a deal.
However, I do remember other key moments in my life where crying meant something more.
For instance, one particular memory came back to me out of the blue today when I was waiting at the bus stop. It’s a very random one, so bear with me.
It was late at night, probably 7 or 8 p.m. or so. I was riding my bike around, just playing near the garage when I was like maybe third grade, give or take a grade. I just remember my dad having a mood swing, yelling and spouting something that got me really upset. Like, really, and I do mean really, upset to the point where I bolted off on my bike and rode around the neighborhood for like a good half an hour or so.
He said something in the vein of you are worthless, you aren’t good at anything … blah, blah, blah …
Basically, it rattled me. I was literally still in elementary school. What else was I supposed to think or do?
I rode away fast on my bike and started crying. I didn’t want to let my dad or anyone else see me. Not my mom. Not my brothers. Not the neighbors. No one.
So I pedaled around just attempting to keep the crying sounds down. I was already embarrassed enough as it was that I was a bicycling crybaby. It took a lot of effort to keep the sniffling to myself, to hide my red eyes and damp cheeks when I finally made my way back home to retreat to my room downstairs.
And the whole time, I just kept thinking that I needed to be tougher, at least when it came to this kind of stuff. Let’s just say the situations where I would burst out and cry my heart out were few and far between from this point onward. Even to this day no less.
I was nowhere near impervious. I was nowhere close to being immune to all the aspects of holding tears back. I learned to keep most of it to myself.
But if you were to sit down and scrutinize my life, I definitely had my share of moments where I should have tucked myself in a corner to cry for hours and hours. Heck, years ago when my depression got really bad, one thing I really wanted to do was cry and let everything come out in floods, but I couldn’t.
Not a single teardrop. Nothing. Dry as the desert.
I even tried to force myself to cry out from frustration. It didn’t happen.
These days, with life looking better than the bleak circumstances that anchored me down, I guess I have fewer reasons to cry, but there are those seldom, yet noticeable, moments where I feel sad enough to have a breakdown still occur.
What’s there to be sad about? You tell me …
“Get good. Be better.” – Nhan Fiction