From my journal, one year ago:
Crying in front of other people is probably the most embarrassing experience.
It’s a messy red faced adventure in controlling snot. I try to cover up my foolishness and vulnerability with wide smiles and laughter, making me look like a goony wolf in sheep’s clothing. As if giggling is an acknowledgement of how stupid I look and if I know it too, I’m one step less ludicrous, because I’m at least self-aware, if not in self-control. How clownish, don’t you see? I’m a calculated explosion of entertainment, not a desperate cover up of the buttons you weren’t meant to push.
The cherry on the milkshake today was being in front of the two way mirror, tripling the insult – crying in group, watching myself be a ugly, and having someone watch me watch myself every time I glance at the black glass. It’s distracting to see yourself cry, and be painfully aware of what awkward patches of skin catch the measles as I get more upset, preventing any actual emotional release and calm that could be gained from the situation.
Was it that I predicted that I would cry, when the topic was raised? I tried to come up with another past situation to discuss, but one kept rising and butting the other ideas out. So I talked about it. And yep, I cried.
The tissue box gets passed. No one mentions it – would that make it better or worse? I’m not sure if anyone is looking at me because I’m too busy trying to make it stop, trying to keep the red nose in check, the snot river clear, the – oh God, the worst part – the red spots on my forehead and temples, and the draining of colour in the rest of my face, making my lips look lined with cold sores. It’s a futile cover up and dam strategy, and the leak is in the papers, soggying them up so that no one will read the story.
I hate crying.