After Laughter

In all honesty, I don’t cry. After 27 years, I’m confident I can count the tears that have trickled down my face on one hand. This isn’t because I’m too macho to outwardly express my emotions; far from it. If anything, I’m too rational. The process of crying feels performative.

That’s not to discredit what works for others, but I can’t force myself to embrace an emotional state. People speak of the relief they get from allowing themselves to sob but can’t relate to that release.

I didn’t shed a tear when my grandmother died after her third bout of cancer. Internally, I reached solace, understanding she’d been pardoned from suffering. Of course, it would have been inappropriate to express my thoughts in front of my grieving father, but I won’t forget those initial feelings. Relief tapered with the sensation I should have been sad with him.

Why wasn’t I overwhelmed with sadness? She is undoubtedly the individual I miss most, but I’ve never mourned her loss. Suffering is survival, and survival is not living. Even now, I’m unwrapping the gifts she gave me, yet I can’t recall ever shedding a tear.

During what many might consider the most profoundly upsetting experience of my childhood, my eyes remained dry. Whenever I reflected upon this, I began to question why.

On the few occasions I’ve released a torrent of tears and attempted to convey my emotions, I have an overwhelming sense my sentiment is stifled. Tears gag and prevent coherent expression. I’ve felt no solace; crying frustrates me further by muffling my explanation of events.

As to why tears arrive so infrequently, I can only assume it’s because the older I’ve become, the less I long for them. I rely on rationality to understand my issues. I’d rather reflect than allow myself to become overwhelmed.