I fell in love with Alex in October. Nine months later… no, this story isn’t going there. Nine months later, the love was pulled away: suddenly, devastatingly, arsehole-y (you know the type).
It was a Sunday, and I cried. Because somehow Sunday tears – tears shed inside the house, out of public view – felt justifiable. On Monday morning they just felt weak.
So for the next five working days, I fought them. I went to war with my tear ducts, furious when I felt my eyes involuntarily glazing over, biting my lip to hide its wobble, swallowing down the sticky tightness in my throat.
On the outside, I was composed. On the inside, I was a broken cup held together with Sellotape that had lost its stick. It was only a matter of time before I naturally crumbled.
I fell apart in one of those posh clothing boutiques that make you feel self-conscious just peering through the window. I went in for a distraction, and somewhere near the cashmere sweaters I howled. My upper body collapsed down to my waist, my eyes – celebrating their freedom – poured, tap-like. I sobbed, audibly and unashamedly.
And it felt good.
Instead of feeling embarrassed, I felt unburdened. It was the emotional equivalent of dumping heavy bags of supermarket shopping on the floor after they’ve started cutting into your hands. I wish I’d allowed myself to put those bags down days earlier: to admit that they were too heavy for me.
The best ugly cries (post continues after gallery)
I was reminded of this incident earlier this month when I read the results of a study on crying by Tilburg University in the Netherlands. Looking at over 5000 people from 37 countries, researchers found that women cry between 30 and 64 times a year, compared to six to 17 times for men.