Crying Shame

I cry all the time, or I used to, anyway. I would cry when I was angry, sad, happy, upset, frustrated...you name it, I cried. I took the Series 7 test several years ago. Before I could sit for it, I had to take a class. It was excruciating. I was 31 years old and I cried...during class...because I was so frustrated.

When I am on my anti-depressants and taking them as prescribed, I am less likely to dissolve into tears. I much prefer that state of being. My teachers were the first people to realize my tears were out of the ordinary. I have talked before about being pulled out of third grade to speak with the social worker. My teachers called me "sensitive."

I didn't intend, in the beginning, to use my tears as a weapon. I was genuinely upset about things. I couldn't manage my responses to stimuli. I would try to verbally spar with the bullies; they outclassed me every time. I would try to navigate female friendships in school; I was always left crying and puzzled. I simply was unable to keep the tears back.

There were times my tears were endearing. One of the first dates Brian and I had was to downtown Chicago. I love Christmas (this is no mystery) and he wanted to show me the lights on Michigan Ave. We drove down to the city and as we turned onto the Magnificent Mile, I got a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. It's like it was a physicological response. Brian looked over at me and was touched by how I reacted.

I have not always used my tears for good. I learned, early on, that my dad (especially my dad) was not able to resist my tears. They were (and are) his Kryptonite. I knew that if I was in a pinch, a well-placed call to dad (with tears) would get me some money. I don't think I actually ever made myself cry; in those moments and times, the tears were real because I was feeling overwhelmed.

The one group of people who were immune were policeman. I have friends who sidestepped numerous moving violations by turning on the waterworks. To be fair, these friends are cute and the tears accentuated that. They are non-messy criers; maybe some streaming of tears down the face, but other than that, nothing. I, on the other hand, turn into a snot-faced, red-faced mess. If I'm stressed--as I normally get when stopped by our fine men in blue--the crying becomes violent, replete with shoulder shaking and shallow breathing. I am not some cute movie star, crying in a beautiful way. I am, quite frankly, disgusting. It's not pretty and it probably shouldn't be a shock that policemen seem more eager to give me a ticket and get away from me.

Today was a crying day. Nothing happened that should have elicited the tears, per se. I went to Bible study (after having crammed last night to get my homework done). My leader, Marcy, usually calls every week to check in on all of us. This week, I only got a text from her. She didn't seem to be too concerned that I had missed last week. I wasn't feeling well and I'm used to at least having one person call to check on me.

Then, to make matters worse, the homework I did was for the wrong week. The rules of this Bible study state that if you've not done the homework, you are not allowed to participate. Perfectly fine rule but I was having a day where I wanted to participate. I have attended Bible study at my own church for several years. I had gotten to know the women quite well and felt comfortable talking about my feelings. Even though I hated it, I had cried in front of them on a couple of occasions.

Today, though, the tears started coming and I had no desire for anyone to see me. I just didn't want to talk about what was upsetting me. I didn't want to be that emotionally vulnerable with people I barely know. This is a shift for me. Typically, I am pretty open and honest about my life. I tend to overshare with people I've just met. It's both endearing and off-putting. I feel like, if I'm honest about who and what I am right at the beginning, people can decide to back away or step forward with me.

So I left. I waited around until I could mostly compose myself (I didn't even want the childcare workers to see me cry), grabbed the kids and left. Bekah noticed that we left early. She kept the chatter up from the time I got her until we got out to the parking lot. Finally, she asked me, "mommy, why did we leave early?" In the interest of full disclosure, I was honest; "I don't know, honey. I don't know."