A Sequel to the Tears that Do not Fall
A short time ago I wrote about the problem I have with crying.
That post touched off a lot of comments both online and off. I am grateful for the support and the words of wisdom that people passed along. They mean a lot to me, they really do. I appreciated the general interest in my welfare.
One of the things that I find so interesting about blogging is how people can read a person’s blog and begin to feel like they really know them well. From time to time I have heard actors complain that their fans think that in “real life” they are exactly like the character they portray on television.
I am honest, brutally honest in my posts, but I still wonder how many people think that they know me and how many really do. I wonder if the image that you have is close to reality. My own self-image is not quite reality.
When I think of myself I see the body that I used to have. I was very disciplined about working out, I had a stomach that was carved up and could curl 150 pounds and had a maximum bench press of more than 300 pounds. I can’t lift that much weight in either category. I can still put up quite a bit, but nothing compared to what I used to.
Of course all I have to do is look in the mirror and I can see that I am not who I used to be. I look different, there are some creases in my forehead, a little more padding here and there and the hair on my head is taking a permanent vacation. So my mental image of myself is not accurate.
But I think that from a mental/emotional point of view my image of myself is accurate. So what does this have to do with being able to cry? In truth, I am not really sure, but it just feels like it is tied in.
If I had to make a guess I would say that there exists a certain amount of frustration with aging, with my lack of discipline about some things and certainly some frustration about a few things in life that I wish that I could change.
I suppose that if I could turn on the waterworks this frustration would still exist, but it’s strenth would be diminished, like a storm that expended it’s strength at sea my frustration would still be there, but the fury with which it attacks would be lessened.
What this all comes back to is a question of control. I don’t want to cry because I am afraid of losing control, at least that is what I think is at the heart of this. I stopped crying because of how hard I cried and now I think that what lies beneath is the same fear I had, just buried.
Now if you want to know when I am sad you need to know me very well or be a mind reader. Ok, this post is not flowing so well so I think that I will start a new one.