I Think I Need to Learn How to Cry Better

Or at least let go of the self-consciousness I have about it.

While I was taking a bath the other day, I was confronted by an image that will remain seared in my memory for the rest of my life. Out of nowhere, I found myself back at the funeral home, walking through the door to look at Chloe's lifeless body. And just like when I saw her for the last time, I was amazed that the violence of the impact that killed her hadn't dislodged her fake eyelashes.

It didn't stop there. The scene started playing in a loop in my mind. I was standing outside the door, walking in, staring at her lifeless body, and marveling at her intact eyelashes. Then, for a few merciful seconds, I returned to the present. Then I found myself back outside the door, reliving the same sequence: entering the room, staring at her lifeless body, and fixating on her eyelashes. Each repetition grew more intense, the colors more vivid, and the emotions stronger. This cycle repeated itself over and over again.

Before I knew it, I was hyperventilating. My eyes were bugging out of my head, and I was clenching my fists so hard my knuckles were white. I couldn't break free from the loop, so I decided to stop trying. That's when the floodgates opened. I started crying harder than I have at any other time since Chloe's death. I could hear myself saying, "I miss her so much," and "I just want her back so bad." I rotated between lying on my back and being hunched over with my hands over my eyes.

Do I Look Ridiculous?

Thankfully, Tanja was in the bathroom with me. Her presence and words made a really difficult situation more comforting. I actually wanted to be left alone in the moment, but I needed to be with her. She gently encouraged me to "let it be big," to let it all out.

When she said that, my first thought was that I wanted to punch the crap out of something. To unload some toxic masculinity on the fate that robbed me of my daughter. Alas, the only thing to punch was the tile around the bathtub, and I didn't see that ending well for my hand. Or the Feng shui of our bathroom. Maybe next time I'm upset, I'll unleash my rage by pointing a mirror at the toilet.

I've cried a lot since Chloe died. I've cried in my car alone in more parking lots than I can count. I've cried in my bed with Tanja beside me. I've cried alone while watching her friend's memorial TikTok a million times. I've cried to "The Brighter Side of Grey" by Five Finger Death Punch and "How Do I Say Goodbye" by Dean Lewis. I've cried while telling her how much I love her. I've cried while staring at her urn on the mantle, trying to wrap my head around the fact that she's inside.

My point is that I'm not against crying at all. I know it's a completely healthy way to process and release emotions. I've long since let go of the idea that crying makes me a weak little bitch. The last time I convinced myself crying was for the weak, I ended up crying on the inside anyway as I wondered why I couldn't stop drinking.

Yet somehow, I still feel self-conscious about it. I'm hyper-aware of the words I'm saying, the sounds I'm making, my facial expressions, and the way I'm contorting my body. And it really doesn't have anything to do with Tanja being around. The same thoughts run through my head when I'm alone. Picture me, in the middle of sobbing, and wondering:

"How am I even making these sounds? Do they sound totally fucked up?"

"How is there this much snot inside my head? Is there always this much in there?"

"Is this real, or is this some type of twisted performance art? If it's the latter, who is my audience?"

"Am I crying hard enough to show Chloe how much I love her if she is watching?"

"Should I blow my nose or will that interrupt what's happening here?"

"Why do I cry harder when I'm hunched over versus lying on my back?"

"What is actually going through Tanja's head right now? Does she think her husband is falling apart?"

"Is it fucked up that I'm naked, in the now-empty bathtub, heaving uncontrollably?"

And this happens despite all of my "personal development," therapy, and having guy friends who aren't afraid to allow themselves to get choked up in front of each other. I find it fascinating to think that on one hand, I can be willing to cry pretty freely, and on the other, I still feel some degree of self-consciousness about it.

I try not to pay the thoughts running through my head too much attention. In fact, I do my best to just notice them and let them go. Sometimes it works, and other times it doesn't work at all for me. When I get fixated on them, I can't help but wonder if they are distracting me from being fully present in my grief. Which ironically distracts me from being fully present in my grief. Goddamn ever-present irony. Is there some underlying belief that I need to release to, as Tanja suggested, "Let it be big"?

Maybe my weird, over-achieving self is just looking at my crying as some kind of competition. Was that big enough? Could I go bigger? I wonder if I could set some target or SMART goal around going big. How would I even measure that? Number of full-body heaves? Liters of tears? What obstacles can I eliminate that are preventing me from hitting this target? Oh, Jason, just shut the fuck up.

I Cry Just Fine

I suppose I've been conditioned to embody a certain, traditional masculinity. There are pros and cons to being this type of guy. I love being a physically and mentally strong protector and loathe being an emotional dolt who is completely out of touch with his emotional experience. Even though I'm fully aware of some of the drawbacks and actively working to break out of the unproductive patterns, some die hard. Others seem to die naturally.

One of the gifts of getting older is that most of us, certainly me, give far fewer cares about what anyone else thinks. We get more comfortable in our own skin and accept the quirks that make us who we are. We've been through life's gauntlet and had more time to understand our strengths and embrace our weaknesses. We've loved and lost and have a better understanding of how deeply related they are. We've tried, failed, and tried again.

I don't need to learn to "cry better." I cry just fine. Just like you. At the same time, there is always an opportunity to practice being more present. To notice the thoughts without becoming attached to them. There is no right or wrong way to cry. There's just the choice to allow your emotions to surface in whatever way they need to surface (as long as you don't harm anyone else. You get to be sad. You don't get to punch someone in the face because you're sad.)

When I woke up the next morning after the bathroom horror loop, I felt like I had been run over by a bus. My ribs actually hurt from all the heaving, and I was dealing with an emotional hangover so intense I felt like I had downed a forty-ouncer the night before. I got up and shuffled to the bathroom, stooped over like a ninety-year-old.

I looked at myself in the mirror and laughed at myself. I'll be fifty in a few weeks. I'm not ninety years old, so there's no need to walk around looking looking like I’m on death’s door. So I made the choice to allow myself to keep feeling the unbelievable sadness of losing my daughter. But I decided to do it while standing tall and squaring my shoulders to face this journey with my head held high and with an open heart.

The road to healing and acceptance is a long and winding one. I wonder if it ever really ends. Everyone grieves differently and it can be an intensely emotional experience. Whether you’r a man or woman, crying is an important way to process and release your emotions. Be patient with yourself and when it needs to be big, let it be big.