Dear Nadia. What if I start crying and never stop?
-Jeff
Dear Jeff,
Yesterday I was back in my occupational therapist’s office. I’d had several brief, sudden, intense bursts of pain at my surgical site the day before, and my thoughts went bleak.
What if I have to have another surgery?
What if this pain keeps coming back?
What if it never leaves? I’d probably just end up addicted to painkillers and scoring dope in the alley behind my house.
I didn’t say any of this out loud, but she could tell I was worried that something was wrong.
So, as she has many times before, she looked me in the eye and said—again, with a gentleness I will forever be grateful for:
“That is normal. I promise. You just have to tell your brain that these pains are not a sign of tissue damage. They are a sign of healing tissue damage.”
Jeff, for most of my life I’ve tried to hunch my emotional shoulders and protect whatever was wounded inside me. When I was younger, that might have been wise. But now it’s pointless. A couple of years ago an interviewer asked me why I so often write about things that made me cry. My best guess is this: for most of my life, I would rather die than show weakness. Crying—especially crying in public—felt like standing naked in front of flamethrowers.
But now… now it still feels like I’m naked, but my tears extinguish the flames.
As I’ve said before, I don’t know why grief’s delivery system is so wildly inefficient, why it seems to drop off all its packages at once, regardless of when they were shipped.
When sadness shows up, it puts its foot in the door and waves in all its friends. We don’t get to control the guest list. Compounded emotions like grief are wildly unpredictable. And humbling.
Yes, there is more bad news in the world than any of our nervous systems can handle—never mind our hearts. And that doesn’t even account for our own bespoke sorrow. But collapse is not what crying does. Crying releases pressure so collapse doesn’t happen.
So if you feel like you need a good cry and are simultaneously terrified that if you start you’ll never stop, let me look you in the eye and, with all the gentleness I can muster, say to you: that is normal. I promise. You just have to tell your brain that emotional release heals rather than harms—even if it feels awful in the moment.
This week I learned that tears caused by emotion are chemically distinct from tears caused by, say, wind. Emotional tears literally contain cortisol. Crying gets that shit out of our system. How lovely. Which makes me think now is a perfect time to stop fighting them and let our bodies do what they’re already offering to do: help relieve us.
I hope you agree.
And please—hand me the tissues.
In it with you,
Love,
Nadia
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Each month I do a day-long Questions and Opinions with the paid subscribers of The Corners. This month I decided to choose one I didn’t have time to answer and post a longer response for everyone. Enjoy.
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Such a beautiful answer to us all. I love your poetry in these lines. “As I’ve said before, I don’t know why grief’s delivery system is so wildly inefficient, why it seems to drop off all its packages at once, regardless of when they were shipped”. Thank you! Here’s to more cortisol release!
I can’t tell you how often that very thought stops me from doing something. If there’s a possibility I might see someone who’s been kind to me or who I’ve loved or has loved me, I am afraid I will start crying and not stop. My brain knows better because I am good at laughing at myself, but it is a powerful deterrent. I’m so grateful for your voice over recent years. And your honest heart most of all.