Sorry For Crying

The first movie that ever made me cry was “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” I was probably 9 or 10, and I have a distinct memory of laying on my stomach, face inches from the TV, tears dripping down my face as I watched Tibby and Bailey lay together in the hospital bed.

I won’t ruin the plot of “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” for you if, god forbid, you haven’t seen it, but all I’m saying is I think “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” scarred me for life.

Something about this touching story of female friendship clicked something in my brain, churned out levels of emotion that were lurking in the folds of my brain and behind my eyelids, turned on the faucet and forgot to turn it off. This was the first day of my new life of crying at everything. I’m not lying when I say everything; I once shed tears over the scene in “The Spongebob Squarepants Movie” when Spongebob and Patrick shrivel up under the heat lamp in the gift shop.

This sensitivity toward fictional plots and narrative characters has become a real-life sensitivity: I’ve developed a level of empathy that at times feels unnatural and overwhelming. I cry when I’m happy, when I’m inspired, when I’m stressed, when I’m angry, when I’m feeling most emotions if I’m being honest. If I see someone’s face crinkle and their lip start to tremor, I will do the same. My emotions mirror anyone’s in the room, especially if they’re sad or stressed. If you are crying I am also crying. I find myself identifying with the phrase, “I’m not crying, you’re crying” on a deep level. If we have a friendship more personal than acquaintances you have definitely seen me cry. There are certainly a few acquaintances who have as well.

I used to view this as an embarrassing and selfish part of my personality. I’ve been called out for “crying for attention,” “being oversensitive to get a reaction,” and virtually every other negative thing you could say to someone who cries a lot. I internalized this deeply, and it made it even worse when I couldn’t stop myself from crying anyway, no matter how many times I told myself to cut it out.

I have tried everything to swallow my feelings, to bury them so far into the back of my brain that I won’t feel anything anymore. I tried to force myself into what I like to call the Apathy Trap. This was something I discovered from social media mostly, people posting or tweeting stories or jokes about how much they don’t care about anyone or anything. I would listen to people talk about being cold and emotionless, romanticizing their ability to never catch feelings, or feel anything really. I envied people who told me they hadn’t cried in months or had never cried in front of other people. I didn’t even understand how that was possible.

These moments of apparent carelessness from the people around me would bother me for hours. I felt like my emotional capacity was broken. I viewed the ability to show visible emotion as a bucket that I had overfilled a long time ago, and now every time I outwardly felt something water would slosh over the sides. My floors were flooding. I wanted nothing more than to breeze through my days, straight-faced and happy, watch movies without bawling, and be able to have a sentimental conversation without feeling my throat tighten.

This summer, I have a job that focuses a lot on social justice and current events. There are days that feel very heavy and emotional, especially when we are hearing personal stories or accounts of prejudice and injustice. I had a coworker recently tell me that she envied my ability to create a personal connection with people by feeling so deeply the emotions they put out in the open. This was the first time in nearly twenty years that I considered this trait could be something positive. Being in touch with how I feel maybe wasn’t a shortcoming. I’ve started to see how my visible emotions help with my writing, with my relationships, with maintaining thoughts and ideas and stories I am passionate about in a tangible way.

My overemotional nature doesn’t make me weak, it doesn’t make me fragile, and it certainly doesn’t make me pathetic. I can cry a lot and still be strong and in control. I am working toward not being afraid of my emotions, to curb and control them for my own benefit. I’ve learned if you stop interrogating yourself about how you feel and work toward embracing it, there is so much power in riding out what you feel in a way that is productive and helps you take care of yourself. I’m finding strength in emotion, in listening, feeling and passing empathy along in a way that doesn’t feel imposing or overpowering.

I’m trying to write about this in a way that doesn’t make me sound like a corny self-help book your mom keeps on the coffee table. Don’t fall into the Apathy Trap, don’t let embarrassment or unnecessary social rules or your peers’ casual relationship with emotion dictate yours. I will watch “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” and cry with pride, and I encourage everyone to do the same. I have a pulsating, evident heart on my sleeve and I am working on nurturing it instead of trying to cut it out.

There is no cookie cutter right or wrong way to feel. Champion your empathy. Whatever it is that makes you feel, let it.