I have a dark secret and I’m afraid to talk about it. But I have to as it drives me nuts and nobody really understands. I’ve had this affliction all my life and it won’t go away. I’m a grown man and I cry regularly. There it is, I’ve said it out loud. I cry little creeks which turn into streams which become rivers and I can’t control them. It’s a massive worry but strangely, and belatedly, the benefits are beginning to more than offset the negative.
Women have known the secret benefits of crying for centuries yet they have kept it from men. Why haven’t they let us in on the crying game? They understand that when the crying is over and done with you feel much better. Lifted. Cleaner. Kind of purified. Almost baptismal. I trust you know what I’m talking about but if you don’t please read on as you might discover something.
I don’t recall when or how the crying commenced but I used to cry a little when I was left out of the footy or cricket teams as a school kid. And of course I didn’t let anyone see the tears. The most violent bout of weeping hit me when my first girlfriend told me to “hit the road, toad”. I was eighteen and the world had come to an end. I managed to reach home that night but I hid in the laundry and attempted to quell the Niagara Falls. Nobody had ever prepared me for this or shown me how to control the volume of water. It took me months to regain control but eventually I felt capable of normal behaviour. Then Roy Orbison wrote and recorded “Crying”…
“I was alright for a while, I could smile for a while (what a wimp)
Then I saw you last night, you held my hand so tight (pathetic)
As you stopped to say hello, you couldn’t tell (is she blind, big baby)
That I’d been crying. Crying. Crying (boy, now he’s in pain)
Crying. Crying. Crying”.
Eventually Roy reached his final high notes of anguish and loss. And horror of horrors my crying was back with a vengeance.
Eventually some kind of maturity crept into my psyche and the repeated weeping appeared to be under control. Occasionally some chick flick would catch me unprepared and I would sit there in the cinema dark and hoped no-one would see me ,or worse, hear me. I cried more than any of my girlfriends and I cringed every time when they’d ask “are you ok?” I couldn’t speak so how could I answer. Countless times I failed to hide it or control it.
Twenty years ago I felt I had reached an island of security. I didn’t weep once in twelve months. This was a watershed moment but with false confidence I requested an LP for my birthday. So my darling wife gave me “Classic Weepies” which I had always wanted but was never confident enough that I’d survive listening to all the tracks. Boy Oh Boy, it was a nightmare! Each track would increase the pain and my crying would intensify and the torture continued. Even today I still play this album and it sends me shuddering for the tissues. Every time! They should have named it “Tracks of my tears”.
It came as a shock when I learned that I was growing emotionally stronger and it gave me confidence to face some of these “sad movies” which are released. But there were still
lapses. My daughter and son were watching “Out of Africa” at home with me. Close to the end the Meryl Streep character starts to leave her Kenyan farm and all her friends and farm hands gather to say farewell. I was about forty eight at this time and the kids were ten and eight but they were so horrified when they saw my emotional state they ran to my wife in the kitchen “Mummy, Mummy look at Daddy! He’s having a breakdown.”
Well, I didn’t but I took steps to change. I had counselling. I saw a psychologist for a year. I undertook some hypnosis treatment. And it worked. I don’t sob, or weep or cry or run for the tissues. I’m fully in control. I simply reach for a large towel and allow the floodgates to open. I’ve learned to never expose myself to emotional earthquakes of any kind. When my
wife left me I didn’t shed a single drop. But I admit I was pretty upset when David Bowie died.
After all this time I’m still puzzled why women haven’t taught men to cry correctly. They do it so well and they look so beautiful afterwards. So why can’t their men hold their hands and cry with them? Crying together is a wonderful thing and should be encouraged. It frees you emotionally as well. You’ll also feel great and look younger too. Crying together could become like praying together. And it’s free! So what is your excuse?
John A Wilson, Gold Coast, April 2017
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