For a tough chick, I cry too much.

I cry happy tears, sad tears, frustrated tears, joyful tears, empathetic tears, even though I am a tough son of a gun. What gives?


I consider myself to be a rufty-tufty kind of woman, one who can adapt to changes and roll with whatever is happening.  I consider myself tough, although “rufty-tufty” might belie that a little.  I consider myself to be empathetic, pragmatic, competent, emotionally independent with a little help, grateful for my friends, humorous and I mostly enjoy life regardless of some of the challenges that living in this time and this place presents to us.

But I cry, often. Not pretty, dab at the corner of the eye tears. 

We are talking about ugly tears, unpretty, undignified tears and a Rudolph red nose and quite frankly it is a tad embarrassing. I can feel it about to happen, my heart/emotions will be nudged, my eyes will prickle and my throat closes and I think “oh no, not again, not here, oh… there we go” and nothing I have thought of can retrieve the situation once the process has started.

I cry at photo’s in the newspaper, there was a photo of a old, grey haired firefighter with his face contorted and crying at a 9/11 memorial and I totally lost the plot because I felt of his grief.

I cry at a fragment in a song, when it suddenly echoes my hopes or trials for a fraction of a minute.

I cry at a hope of something in the future, mostly to do with hopes for my child.

I cry at TV shows or news reports sometimes, not at the blatant “send us your money” reports, but sometimes at the response of a nearby person who intervened to make something better.

I cry at the Humans Of New York series, particularly the teachers who are making a difference.

I cry at TED talks, mostly the school principals who announce on the PA “if nobody told you today that you are loved, we love you”.

I cry in disappointment.

I cry, and pretty much lose the plot, when I hear kids singing in Church.

I cry at the idea of crying.

It wasn’t always this way, I had it under control for years and was able to function without this embarrassing affliction. But, I was numb, stoic, trying to keep it all together and I don’t know which way of being I prefer, then or now.

I am mainstream, not a new age hippy, and the word “feelings” to me is quite a bit of a swear word and a cop out.  Yet it “feels” like I am feeling too much.  Sundays are my worst day – when I step in the chapel during particularly trying times it feels like the only place in the world where I don’t have to emotionally fight.  Sometimes the tears there are because I received a longed for answer or because I get the sense of eternal allies for the briefest of moments and I don’t feel alone for that moment.

I am hoping that this intensity will calm down after a period and that I’ll learn and adjust to feeling these emotions.  It’s a little like taking the perforated lid off of a microwavable meal when it has just dinged, that first blast of steam that risks the old fingers for a moment.  I am hoping that admitting I have a problem might be the first step in overcoming this affliction.  Here’s to hoping, eh.

Author: Pollyanna Whyte

Single LDS Mormon Mum/Mom living in England. This is my blog on emotional health, fun, parenting, life, divorce, starting over, friends, family, church things, and budgeting. Stop by, tell us what you think, feel free to share (but credit the source please).

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