About a week ago, I claimed that I was an empty cup, but that wasn't entirely true; my cup was brimming with those salty harbingers of emotion we call tears. Ryan Adams would love me these days (because, you know, "Damn, Sam, I love a woman that rains").
This inability to control my ducts is pathetic; as a young(er) woman, I prided myself on an almost masculine aversion to tears, but it seems those days have passed, and crying comes as naturally as making a cup of tea in the morning or turning off the lamp at night. This new "symptom," I'll call it, has required a few extra efforts one may not normally consider: without an emergency supply of tissues and mascara, I dare not venture into the world lest a spontaneous breakdown leave black tracks down my face and expose my weakened state.
They say time heals all wounds, but I'm inclined to think it only dries them up; my eyes have certainly begun to dry out. It started on Easter Sunday with my grandmother's beautiful asparagus and even more beautiful mandarin cake with chocolate-covered strawberries. On Monday I found that my sobs were less sloppy. By Wednesday, I was going into withdrawal, running down a list of imaginary woes to force out a drop or two. This morning I even caught myself humming. So I figured the rain was over.
I stopped carrying my mascara.
Yeah, you can guess what happened next: today was the day Apollo broke down my door and threatened to turn me into cypress tree with tears that fall for all eternity. (It happens, it really does.) I'm a mess.
But now, this mess is less pathetic. It seems that vulnerability is all the universe was really asking of me. Fear of exposure had been holding me back; I was only barely letting myself sink into sorrow, mopping up every drop in the interest of an artificial tidiness. So I'm confessing my syndrome publically and declaring that I will no longer try so hard to be my own protector. Life isn't exactly something you can prepare for by packing a bag, is it?
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