In my youth, I was known to (on occasion) weep. And I was not a good weeper. I did not melt men’s hearts. I’m the type men laugh at because I get the red nose and red eyes and giant blubbery lips with spit bubbles in the corners. Oh, and the copious uncontrollable snot.
At some point (and if you are young and a Bad Weeper may this give you hope) my tears changed. I noticed it last year as I was reading The Secret Life of Bees. I noticed on page 35 that tears were slipping out of my eyes and silently running down my cheek.
I thought, what the hell is wrong with Gary that he isn’t asking me what’s wrong? So, to help the boy out, I sniffed loudly. He glanced up, then down, and kept reading his own book. (Just so you don’t think we sit about reading all the time, at this moment he is watching Futurama.)
I thought, what is the deal? Heartless bastard. We will have words about this. I hopped up and went into the bathroom and tried to pull my face together with cold compresses. It was then I noticed that I had cried almost bloodless tears. No red nose, spit bubbles, etc. They were like Bad Actress Glycerin tears.
Well, it turns out my body’s self-pride has progressed to a point beyond the Darryl Hannah tears. This past weekend I was crying in the car (for reasons I’ll explain later). I was on the passenger side and the only eye that cried was the passenger side eye. Gary couldn’t have seen tears even if he’d looked. At some point I took over driving and I swear, my body turned on the waterworks on the driver’s side and shut off the right eye tear ducts. Again, dry as a bone on the side facing Gary.
This was lucky, because as it happened I had no reason to cry. At some point on Friday I became convinced Gary didn’t love me any more. This continued on Saturday, and would have probably progressed if I hadn’t remembered on Sunday that I’d forgotten my anti-depressants for a week. I’m sure I would have woken up Monday believing no one loves me, and then by Tuesday I would have found myself guilty of starting the Iraq war, instead of our leaders.
9 responses to “Sniffle”
Toward the end of our 1900 mile road trip last week, I found myself listening to a country year-end countdown. I was quickly reminded why I started listening to talk radio while pregnant. There was a song about a dad watching his daughter’s first dance with her new husband. Tears streamed from my eyes. I don’t even remember the next two songs, but I’m sure they didn’t help. and did my husband notice? Of course not. Then again, he may have just assumed my newly acquired pink eye was overly active at the moment.So, turn back to 550 or talk to the doctor about a low dose happy pill?
What? There are “happy” pills? All they give me are anti-crazy pills that return my rational thoughts. I don’t get any happy out of it. And I think a 1900 mile road trip, country music, and pinkeye would make me cry too.
Wow. I’m more like you – the anti-crazy pills. I’m not happy, but at least I’m not killing anybody close to me.Ahh, for the good ol’ days o’ prozac. Sure, it gave me a seizure that nearly killed me, but I also dropped down to 95lbs and thought I could conquer the world!!!
Hey Queen~There’s nothing wrong with feeling how you’re feeling. Depression is a really tough thing to break out of. Trust me, I know. I literally wanted to die after my last relationship shit the bed. I hated my life and my presence in it. Now, since meeting a new man, I feel so much better. It just takes one chance, one instance, one leg out on the limb and you feel alive again. It’s crazy speak, I know, but just know that you’re not alone and that things CAN get better. I’m finally realizing it and it’s a glorious thing!! Take care of yourself!!
Thanks, LJ and MonkyGurrl! You crazy kids! I am only distressed that the Celexa I have stored in my boobs and thighs did not spontaneously release back into my bloodstream, as was my plan.
Repeat after me – I will live my life better through chemistry.
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