on being a crybaby

them damn overactive tear ducts...

A short story shared by a neighbor. A song on the radio at Walgreens. Any freaking Instagram reel with a dog in it. Signing off with a friend over FaceTime. My boyfriend squeezing my hand before we fall asleep. 

I always imagined growing up made you sturdier, more braced for the world, and it does, but my goodness can it also make you sensitive. 

No, I will not be professing myself an empath. I would never put a hand to my chest, point my nose skyward, and declare, “I guess I just feel more than the average person.” 

This isn’t that. Simply put: “I am a major weeper.”

Jude Law in The Holiday gets it.

“I didn’t used to be like this.” I laugh mid-session with my therapist, wiping away fat tears long before we get to the heart of some much heavier subjects. “As a kid and through college, I know I had a lot of feelings, a lot of hard feelings even, but I don’t think I cried this easily. It comes on now at the drop of a hat.”

I tell her it feels embarrassing to blink back tears at inappropriate/inopportune times. I do not need this level of emphasis in casually letting you know I think you did the right thing. The last thing I want is to steal your emotional thunder in listening when you recall an old memory. I’d like to be able to tell my loved ones I’m proud of them without needing to look away immediately after. 

I ask my therapist something she cannot tell me. “Why the sudden deluge? Why hasn’t it gone away?” 

If I’ve worked through some pretty rough chapters in life and came out on the other side skipping, wouldn’t that give me a tougher skin or balance my sensitivity threshold a little? Or is it because of those difficult experiences that everything feels more precious? Are the constant looming, dooming headlines to blame? Are we all finding ourselves a bit more tender to the touch these days? 

As I started to notice my readiness for tears a few years ago, through my divorce or maybe just as the first few inklings of You Look Like Hell were coming about, I thought it was a symptom of the times. When the tears outlived that chapter, I figured it could be burnout. Could be hormones, could be PMS, could be stress, could be love, could be heartbreak, could be I’m tired, or that I’m feeling a bit fragile right now. 

No matter the season, no matter my own cycle, the tears have stuck around. If anything, they’ve marked a time of beginning to feel stronger.

While annoying, sometimes these squishy feelings work in ways that make sense to me — misty-eyed at a stunning, rusty sunset, stargazing with my dog on the porch, checking off a trip, a milestone, or something I once considered a miracle, off of my life’s bucket list. At times, I even speculate if the tears come on more often in happiness than sorrow. I know by nature of being a writer, I am going to be observant of details, of emotions and connecting dots, and my god, the symbolism of it all, which feeds me endless inspiration and love of this life. Yes, of course. That, I’ll welcome in gladly. But oh, I would also very much be down to not think too seriously after a well-written ad on YouTube.

I don’t play well with the question, “if you could change anything about how you got here, would you?” No matter your answer, it won’t happen. That question rubs me as simplifying pain or what you’ve overcome, and as grateful as I am for current joys, I don’t think I would survive some of the past if I had to live through it again. Asking if you can change the past is one thing, asking if you’ve learned to work with it is another. 

I’m at a point in realizing I have spent too much time in my present trying to do exactly that—grapple with or change the past—wanting to go back and whisper wisdom to myself, make better decisions, or divert the actions of others. This realization makes me feel like I’ve been pressing my hands against a TV screen, trying to convince the actors into a new plot.

Instead, what I do find helpful is accepting that whatever portrait I’m painting in this life has already come with a few dark layers I can’t strip back. There were a good number of mess-ups; a few shades that will show through any color I add to it now, but from what I’ve gathered about art, from what I’ve seen in some of my favorite pieces, a dark first draft can only add more depth to what’s painted over it. 

My feelings about feelings, my annoyance toward my trigger-happy heartstrings, come and go. Mostly, I can handle a little embarrassment if I get to experience this level of joy, companionship, and optimism about the future, too. I’ll be the weepy friend at a wedding, high school reunion, or just as likely, any good hike. 

Need a shoulder to cry on? Mine are already wet, but ready for you nonetheless, my friend.

I guess I’ll see if it’s a quality that sticks around for the long run. Though writing this now and considering if it were gone tomorrow, maybe I’ve made more room for it than I realize. If anything, it’s an ugly coffee mug I won’t add to the yard sale just yet. 

Not exactly the ideal sentiment, but I can call it an improvement. I think there could be a day I love it better.

Thanks for listening.

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
tissue box fund (venmo): schuylerpeck

If you’re interested in supporting my writing or reading more:
book link 1: The Ghosts’ Share of Rent (newest book!!)
book link 2: You Look Like Hell
book link 3: To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart
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