Your soul

Yesterday, I Cried Like A Bitch. Here’s Why.

By November 24, 2015 1

Yesterday I cried like a bitch.

Actually, it was more like a Lochness monster, as bitches tend to politely whimper, whereas I? No, I was boo-hoo, snot-sobbing, in the way that a toddler does when he’s learned too soon, from a heartless older sibling, that Santa isn’t real.

It was an ugly, from-the-chest cry. A raw-sounding, devastating bass that can only be created at the foundation of a soul.

It started with chocolate ice cream.

I had made up my mind that I was going to stay in and work on a Friday night– and treat myself to chocolate ice cream, because, well, I deserved it. I then decided that while I had my chocolate ice cream, I was going to flip through the channels on the new television I had purchased, (the one that I never have an opportunity to watch because I’m always working)  because tonight, well, I deserved it.

I then saw that the movie “Stepmom” was just about to begin. For those of you that have never seen it, it’s a devastatingly beautiful movie featuring Susan Sarandon, and Julia Roberts about a mother, who hates her children’s much younger, stepmother (for some arguably valid reasons). But then she (the biological mother) gets cancer. And then the cancer progresses, as does the plot and its working themes regarding just what happens to a person that doesn’t have “tomorrow” guaranteed, progress.

I had seen this movie before and I knew what it meant. Typically, I do not welcome this sort of emotion, but something in the far outreaches of my mind beckoned “it’s time”.

And so I made a conscious decision to sit down, turn off my cell phone, turn off my computer, and open the symbolic gates.

For the next two and a half hours, I cried. I cried at the happy parts, I cried at the sad parts. I cried during commercial breaks as I let my mind wonder to the victims of the Paris Bataclan Concert Hall, and what they must have been thinking and feeling during the 15 fucking minutes of bullets spraying around them. As they bled out onto the floor and said I love you to one another. As they took their final breaths.

I cried when the movie returned from its breaks, and kept right on crying when the movie ended.

I just fucking cried.

I resolved to then turn my computer back on to read about, and cry for country singers Joey & Rory Feek. wondered what Joey must be thinking as she lie in hospice, knowing that one day very soon, she simply will not wake up. I cried so compassionately and sincerely for her family. I cried for my family, I cried for the universe, for humanity. The arbitrarily tragic essence of it all.

I hadn’t cried–truly cried like that since I was a child. Since it became uncool to cry. Since it became a sign of weakness, or unprofessionalism, or whatever the fuck else it’s now considered, since we all consented to becoming robots.

And then I stopped.

I was all cried out.

What happened next was that a natural ecstasy began to descend upon me. A rush of happy came to meet the sad. A deep-seated contentedness began to unfold, and suddenly, everything was okay. Like seriously, alarmingly okay. I didn’t desire anything. I was truly happy. I felt whole. Satisfied in a way that none of life’s indulgences ever seem to precipitate. It was a paradoxical reward– my reward for having released a REAL energy into the world.

I think children are made out of tears. They feel everything, at the drop of a hat, without any regard for their surroundings. They are these amazing, sentient, compassionate little beings. Truly happy because of their ability to feel.

Compassion makes us happy. And I’m not talking about tinting your Facebook profile picture with a transparent France flag, I’m talking about the gushy stuff:

Sobbing. Releasing real anguish, fearlessly into the world.



Tears are beautiful. Tears are poetic. Louis CK may have said it best when he offered that “we are lucky to live sad moments”.

Yesterday, for the first time in many years… I was lucky.