One of my best friends texted me this morning lamenting the lack of hormones that feeds her PMS symptoms. It’s a thread we circle back to monthly because we’re both big, enthusiastic bitches who feel the dip in more dramatic ways than our personal and professional lives would prefer. I asked her about the type of tears she felt falling this morning, and she responded:
I Don’t Wanna Tears (IDWT henceforth).
She is a badass single mother who’s had a helluva year, a helluva handful of years actually. That’s the least interesting thing about her though. She is courageous, meaning, she engages her heart even when it feels very scary to notice the things it whispers to her. She is bright, meaning, she allows the warmth of knowledge, wisdom, etc. to land on her fair skin and sparkle back onto the rest of us. She is strong and sturdy in every way, so people tend to lean a little longer and with a little more dependence—the curse of broad shoulders.
She’s tired, and she doesn’t wanna.
I see you nodding your head in agreement. You, too?
In between texting her and scrubbing my filthy kitchen floor, it occurred to me…
Are there any other type of tears to cry? Aren’t all tears just the juice of some version of I Don’t Wanna fruit getting pulverized in our souls?
I don’t wanna feel this nerve pain shooting down my left leg.
I don’t wanna say goodbye. I don’t know how to do this without you.
I don’t wanna get out of bed. I can’t do it.
I don’t wanna ever leave this moment. Thank You.
I don’t wanna forget this. Can you believe we’re this lucky?
I don’t wanna watch another school shooting unfold. My homeland feels messy.
I don’t wanna go back there. I can’t go back there.
I don’t wanna because I don’t know how. It would look clunky.
I don’t wanna because I’m not ready yet.
Tears are the most courageous things I’ve ever seen a body do. The first time I had cancer I think I cried less than five times about the actual cancer. I was nineteen and cried way more over the douchebag I had to leave behind in Chicago.
The chemical compound of tears is unique, and scientists believe we evolved to ensure that the right droplet size combines with the correct amount of proteins; thus, attracting the attention of another human.
Look over here, please. No! Nevermind, don’t! Actually, yes, please do. I have feeling juice falling out of my eyes. I don’t know exactly what I need, yet. I’ll let you know when I do? Or maybe you can help me figure it out? Or maybe you already know what I need?
Tears are what surrender looks like on the outside. Tears are proof that something has shifted, is shifting. Surrender implies a lack of control, I’m not in charge here, right now—for good or for hard.
Human psyches and nervous systems feel unsettled in the presence of “I don’t have control.”
That nerve pain I mentioned earlier? That was personal. I don’t wanna feel this. It’s been keeping me up at night, it’s expensive to address, and the pain makes me cranky. I know why it’s there, I understand the circumstances that established the patterns that created the problem, physically and emotionally. I know why it’s flared. I know what it’s asking for, and who it’s asking for.
I know the neurons believe something about themselves that isn’t true anymore. There was a time when I believed I needed XYZ to feel complete. My brain understands that this current Claire doesn’t require what Claire eight months ago required. I’m evolving, grieving, re-writing. And I’m begging my body to get on board.
It doesn’t wanna…
It doesn’t wanna go another day without the XYZ…
This is an inflection point. Surrender and defeat are two sides of the same coin. Or are they sisters? Or maybe if I squint hard enough I don’t have to see the Truth zapping from the nerve root to the bottom of my left foot:
I can’t control this. I can’t control him, or her. I can’t control them. I feel tired, and a dozen other things I can’t quite identify, yet.
So we cry. We surrender to the facts while holding bilateral middle fingers out into the unknown. Or at least that’s what I do.
We breathe to get back here, to this moment. It’s all we have. We text a friend. We take a walk under tree canopy or barefoot on beaches. We remember what Carrie said and we make art (make anything) with our human heart. We remember days when the tears were shed in wonder and joy instead of whatever the hell this is.
Do you remember when…exhale…and then…more tears. Except they’ve changed. They don’t sting, now they’re tears of gratitude. How lucky we were to be there at that exact moment.
How lucky we are, to be here, in this exact, awful moment. This exact, awe-full moment. Middle fingers up.
Middle fingers down.
On our knees.
Human.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Professionally Human.
I love you.
I am here with you.
I see the proteins falling from you, I see that they signal something shifting from within. I think you are so courageous for allowing them to be witnessed. I think you are so courageous for allowing yourself to feel in this place. Been a helluva year…
Want to watch the sunset?
