Are Mine the Only Dry Eyes in the Place?

I’m really not a crier. Not at movies, when I’m sad, when I’m frustrated, nothing. It just doesn’t happen. My entire family is that way, we just aren’t wired to shed tears.

By K

I flew home for a funeral two months ago and my mom’s best friend from childhood came over, sobbing her condolences as she handed us boxes of muffins and pastries. After she left, the three of us looked at each other, our brows furrowed, until finally my mom asked aloud, “What’s wrong with us?”

That’s not to say we don’t mourn. Oh, we mourn, we grieve, but we’re more the type to crack a joke or tell a story about the departed than clutch a box of Kleenex and let our mascara run. Well, my mother and I. Dad doesn’t wear mascara.

When I picked up and left home to move for my career, as we all call our first job after college in attempt to take ourselves more seriously, I really only cried when I said my goodbyes to my college roommates and after I walked my parents to their taxi. For like a minute, and then it was time to get real. Since I’ve been here, it’s just not something I have time or privacy for.

One of my bedroom walls is a French door, the apartment is tiny, and honestly, I don’t need to share my emotions with the entire world. I write it out if I don’t want to talk about it, and more often than not, I just look for a distraction. I really don’t like giving an air of fragility, especially as far as my feelings are concerned. I want to be the tough cookie I was forced to be when I flung myself out of my comfort zone and into Manhattan.

Of course, any idiot will tell you this is impossible. It’s just too hard trying to make it on your own. It’s stressful trying to see how far money will go, how long it’s going to take to pay off the credit card, whether you can find a new apartment, get a promotion, find the right shade of blonde, lose ten pounds, have fun, and stay serious enough to stay out of trouble all at once. My usual answer, as I said, is to distract myself and make a change, and it’s typically my hair, about once a month. As the pressure built, I called every salon I could find on NYMag’s website, finding that I had to wait over a month for an appointment. After one particularly long day at work, I walked home, called and ranted to my parents (who can do nothing from hundreds of miles away), and checked my mail per their suggestion.

All it took was a card with a cat on it that said “I Only Miss You Part of the Time… The Awake Part!” and I was bawling. Possibly because of the irony of the situation. I can’t get upset over the big things, but a freaking card can turn on the waterworks? I must really be getting sentimental in my old age… of my early twenties.

My mother hates animals. I hate animals. Yet every card she sends has either a puppy or kitten on it, gawking at you with eyes too big for its head and suggesting innocent adoreableness. I was home alone, for once, so I took advantage and let it go. And it was perfect in a weirdly therapeutic sense. Maybe vulnerability isn’t so bad, after all? And maybe, most importantly, it’s better to let it out when you feel it than to keep it pent up to save face?