Published in Catalogue, 2016
If you were to rank every human on earth along a spectrum defined by the tendency to cry, I would probably fall way over to the right of centre, somewhere between the “Weepers” and “Total Cry Babies” section. I cry a lot. I cry at small, inconsequential things like that video of the hummingbird snoring, at almost any moment of emotional intensity, be it a tiff with my partner or any time I have to look anybody directly in the eyes. I cry uncontrollably whenever I’m scared – I think my face was wet for the entirety of Stranger Things season one (I’m not even joking, I was almost medically concerned that my eyes could keep producing water for five hours stretches).
I cry on the reg and it honestly feels strange and uncomfortable when I haven’t cried in a while, as though I’m gradually building towards bursting point and then all it takes is something stupid like a friend laughing at my shoes to fling the floodgates open. I relate to this particular article from The Onion on a spiritual level.
As much as I find crying cathartic, I also find welling-up quite infuriating simply because there is so much damning stigma surrounding crying. I find it maddening that this particular form of emotional valence is so often construed with fabricated ‘weak’ and ‘feminine’ qualities that would hold you back in the ‘professional’ world. Not crying is seen as an inherently powerful, attractive trait; it doesn’t betray vulnerability and it so often appears to be more rational and coherent to act in this way. Even J.K Rowling stated that one of the reasons Harry was so attracted to Ginny Weasley was the fact she grew up with brothers and was therefore “rarely weepy”. I’m sorry J.K, I love you, but fuck that. I cry a bunch, I get shit done, and I’d be fucking sick at Quidditch.