Big Girls Don't Cry

photo by No More Love

I hate crying.

I hate it because it makes my nose all swollen, my eyes all puffy (and sting the whole day), and my nose stuff up. I hate it because once I get started I can't stop, I just have to ride it out - and that takes a good, long while, believe me. I hate it because I am incapable of crying all dainty and ladylike as they do in the movies, but instead let loose in a cacophony of snuffles, hiccups, and undignified sobs when I get going.

I admit it, when it comes to the crying thing, I've always been a little weird. Ironically, I find that it's much easier to let myself cry over a sappy movie or a sad plot twist in a book than things that happen in real life - which is also why I often resort to using them when I feel too pent up about my life but am unable to do some cathartic bawling. Even as a little girl, I've been a big practitioner of keeping a stiff upper lip. My combination of innate stubbornness and refusing to show any sign of weakness often serve me quite well.

Which is probably a sign of emotional constipation on my part.

Anger is a little bit harder to control for me than sadness or emotional wallowing, and most of my major public tear-fests have been induced by frustration and rage. Being unfairly railed at by someone more senior than me at work or undermining my work are examples of things that can really get me going. It gets really embarrassing and awkward, but crying is at least more career-saving for me than giving into the urge to plant my knee in a superior's groin. It can get so hard to hold in the impulse to physical violence sometimes that it has to come out somewhere - the tearducts seem like a fair enough place to start.

As far as crying goes, I can be obviously such a man. Unfortunately, I am a product of my conditioning and, until now, I often need an external stimulus not related to my life to get me going (with the exception of being triggered by the really major events - like death or long separations). If I'm really, really depressed and want a good cry without having to make excuses, I have, on occasion resorted to bottle-induced bonding - a time-old macho Pinoy guy ritual reserved for seriously broken hearts (which I may or may not have as my own reason for wanting to wallow at the time).

Does this mark me as abnormal? Is it just me, or has anyone else bought into the idea that big girls aren't really allowed to cry?

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Written for The Blog Rounds 20, hosted by Ness. :)