Every now and then, I enjoy a good cry. I pop in a movie featuring growth-stunted children with lisps and incurable diseases - and just get all emo.
But if my tears are not induced by an episode of Extreme Home Makeover"" and are caused by actual emotions, I can't handle it. If something real is making me feel something, I'd much rather be doing anything else - like reading Kant's '""philosophy on religion while on the Stairmaster and picturing my little brother getting his mack on.
Don't get me wrong, I'm sensitive when it comes to others. Honey, I feel you - but I don't like feeling myself. I've always tried to be a stoic person who doesn't let anyone see my tears - more commonly known as a man.
And while feminists claim women don't get hypersensitive once a month, that's bullshit - tell that to my emotions. Because there is always a period each month where I become a raving lunatic. I feel every feeling. I eat everything in sight. I hate everyone around me.
Last week was one of those times. An accumulation of things got to me: My mom called me a mistake, my debit card was overdrawn, I realized one day my grandma would eventually die. I had a huge zit, trouble sleeping and the only man in my life was Jesus and he doesn't believe in premarital sex.
Even when friends were being nice, I despised their chirpy voices and fresh outlooks. Though I'd been feeling under the weather lately, no one knew. I paste on the perfect smile, go out and dance too much and tell all the right jokes. Humor has always been my safeguard.
Usually I'm aware of how great my life is, especially in comparison to those who actually endure hardship, but I just couldn't help but feel sad. At work on Friday, I knew I would go home for a good cry. My roommate wouldn't be there and this somewhat cheered me up. When I'm going to break down, no one can be around to witness my demise.
When I finally got back to my apartment, I realized I was locked out - the icing on the proverbial cake. The tears were coming. It was like having to pee, I just couldn't keep it in any longer no matter how hard I clenched.
And so I became that girl - the one you see walking down the street with tears streaming down her cheeks, with the blotchy face and runny mascara. ""Poor girl,"" you thought. And believe me, I like attention - but this was all the wrong kind.
When I saw a friend walking toward me, I was humiliated. I didn't want her to see me like this, so I tried thinking of something to cheer myself up.
I thought about my family (didn't help), the food waiting for me at home (none left) and Jesus (Holy shit). When that didn't work, I tried repeatedly telling myself how amazing I was - but even stroking my massive ego didn't help.
When my friend reached me, I was all snot. My head hurt. Everything was becoming too real, permanent and embarrassing.
""Hey,"" she said. ""Are you OK? What's wrong?""
""I-I-I-ev-eve-every-everything. Every. I.I. Everything."" I couldn't speak.
She dropped her bag and draped her arms around me. ""It's OK,"" she said. ""Do you want to come over and talk about it?""
I shook my head.
""Wanna come over and not talk about it?"" she offered.
Soon I was curled on her couch with a cup of tea. It was nice to let someone else in. Sometimes, when I go to sleep at night, I wrap my arms around myself in a hug. Usually it's just because I'm cold. Other times, maybe it's because there is no one else around. But every now and then, it's OK to let somebody else hold you.
If you need a shoulder to cry on or someone to share massive amounts of chocolate with, e-mail Ashley at aaspencer@wisc.edu._
