The tears in flames.
I started crying since the day I was born, and sometimes it feels like I haven't stopped since.
I refused to come out of my mother's uterus. The doctor rescued me before it was too late with the help of forceps. I repaid his heroism with loud tears, screaming I had arrived. My mother would remember my first cries to this day.
I would cry every time I got a shot. I have no clue how many they were, but it seemed to me that there were too many. I would start crying in the car, the moment I recognized the way to my pediatrician's office. My doctor, an adorable man, would ask my mother to get someone else to give me the vaccines, as he felt as though he would lose my trust every time. My parents tried helping, by making an effort to convince me it wouldn't be so bad. They would ask Dr. Balmaceda to inject my little brother first. My little brother wouldn't even nudge. "See honey? Your brother isn't crying, it doesn't hurt". I would reply in tears, telling them his arm was fatter than mine, that was the reason he didn't feel it. It was my way of explaining that my pain was my own. Even if he didn't feel it, my experience couldn't be anyone else's. I felt it, and it was hurtful, and so I would continue to cry every time a needle went into my skin.
When I had chickenpox at nine years old, my skull would hurt, which made it impossible for me to comb my curls during a week, due to the annoying blisters that would burn if they burst. My throat would feel covered with spines whenever I swallowed my own saliva, making cold grapes one of the few things I would eat for the duration of my illness. That was the first time I thought about dying. At my short age, I didn't know what suicide meant, and yet I wished for it. After spilling a tear I told my mother: "I want to jump out the window". She cried with me, I can only imagine the pain any parent would feel after hearing these words from their daughter or son.
On my tenth birthday, while I was hopping down the stairs with a small group of friends that were following me to the pool, I found my father going the opposite way. He was showing our four story house to an unknown elegant woman. I put two and two together. She would be moving in, me and my family would be moving out, leaving my childhood home. I would later learn she was a countess from Europe, who randomly knocked on our door that day looking to rent the house, just as my father was going through an income dry spell. I cried with my guests, who comforted me while eating birthday cake.
During flights, my ears would always hurt. When the pain was unbearable, I would let single tears run down discreetly, not wanting to make a scene. The stewardesses would recommend chewing gum, opening and closing my mouth exaggeratedly. They would bring me disposable cups with cottons in the bottom filled with warm water, they would suggest I place them as headphones. The idea was that the steam would help release the pressure trapped inside the ears. So now, in addition to the insufferable pain, I would draw attention from the other passengers, who were curious about the funny improvised tools on my ears. The stupid cups never worked, but I felt forced to use them, to indulge the kind people who wanted to help.
While many would be empathetic when I cried, most would consider this to be a bad thing. In a prank Secret Santa with my extended family, my cousins gave me a plastic bib, which had a kind of big plastic spoon at the chest. This was meant to carry all of my tears, they said while laughing. I laughed with them while I stopped my tears from showing. It was fairly normal for them to say: "Are you going to cry, again?".
I guess I also contributed in my own way. I would shame my brother into not crying. "If mom sees you, we will both get grounded". I obviously didn't want to get in trouble.
As years passed by, I self-taught myself to stop from crying before I even started. I would tighten my stomach and stop breathing until the feeling passed. No one would see me cry once I pulled this off.
I noticed watching someone cry, would be so uncomfortable for others, that it would often be used as a tool to get what the cryer wanted. Causing the spectator to give in, as long as that wet unsolicited spectacle would soon stop.
It was uncomfortable for people who watched it, it also showed weakness and disadvantage. The first time I had a public speaking test, in front of my close friends with whom I shared the classroom, I was paralyzed. I didn't cry, I just cut my speech short. I closed with a quick "thank you" and rushed down the stage. The girl who followed me started crying with no signals of stopping. I heard some teasing and criticizing. I was her, with a great talent to hide those salted drops.
The first time I got my heart broken at fifteen, my mother said he didn't deserve my tears. We are not even allowed to cry when there's a genuine reason to do so.
My father announced he had cancer. "Who will give me away at my wedding?", was the first thing my eighteen year old brain allowed my mouth to say. If I had known all of the important and unimportant dates in which I would miss my dad, I would still be crying in that bed. As luck would have it, my immature head just thought of my wedding day. Fortunately, I would get a better chance to say goodbye seventeen years later.
At college, the ban on tears would continue. People will say you're on your period, as if that was the only time women are allowed to express sadness.
In the workplace this just got worse. You would lose your colleagues' and superiors' respect, showing that you can't deal with pressure. One of the top asked questions by recruiters in almost every company.
Thirty-seven years of my life passed, learning to retain the water my eyes wanted to let go.
In 2020, my father had back surgery, I came to know he was now invaded by those deadly cells. That same year, a pandemic struck the world, closing borders and businesses. I lived most of the year with half my salary and with an intolerable uncertainty. I started planning twelve hours ahead instead of twelve months.
I got to tell my father everything I needed to. I had written a goodbye a few months back, sensing this moment would come. A thanatologist had suggested I read to him. I was afraid of crying in front of him, I thought it was my job to be strong for him, not show him my sadness. The specialist said, "there is no better time to cry with your father as right now". I gathered the guts and I paid my respects. I thanked him, and I let him know we would all be ok if he decided this was the right time to leave. Of course I shed a hundred tears, there wasn't any other way around it.
My father died and ten months later, my first birthday without him had come.
I woke up. I took my morning pill as I always do. I drank the whole glass of water in one big gulp. It felt like there was a direct channel from my mouth to my eyes, and the tears seemed to fill that glass again. My father wouldn't call me that morning to ask if he could put together a party for me with live music, he wouldn't ask me in which restaurant I wanted to have dinner to celebrate. This year, my father would not hug me on my birthday.
When I finished, I thought: "Don't try to fight it there is no way of forgetting how much you miss your favorite person today". I grabbed my mobile and texted my boss: "I have easy tears today, if you notice it please pretend you don't". I got dressed and drove to my beautiful office, a hotel immersed in the jungle of the Riviera Maya.
I spoke to my father on the way. He mocked me by calling me "chechona", a way of saying cry-baby in Yucatan, a southern state of Mexico where he was born. I replied "just like you", and he went silent.
I started my work day. Two members of my Public Relations agency, with whom I had a very close relationship, gifted me a necklace. I got excited and asked for their help to put it on right away. They were here on a mission.
This would be possibly one of the most stressful days of my career. Amongst other things, I was in charge of the production and success of a live transmission for the top media in the country. We were introducing a new room category as the ideal oasis for relaxation. 45 minutes before the live broadcast, a loud construction noise kept banging only steps away from the cameras. I took off my high heels and ran to order absolute silence to the woman in charge of the construction.
The live show lasted about an hour. The media asked questions for 30 minutes. It was a success.
"Cut! It's a wrap!", yelled the director. My shoulders seemed to touch the ground and a waterfall came down my cheeks. The production team started singing Las Mañanitas, the Spanish version of Happy Birthday. They hugged me without worrying about social distancing (yes, we were still in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic).
"Your father is taking care of you", said my boss. "No, he's actually bullying me", I said as I laughed.
The day was far from over. I was still missing a photo session with the beautiful actress who had been the hostess of the live transmission. She was now posing for a famous magazine in different locations around the resort. But first we took a lunch break. I shared the table with the magazine's editor, the agency's CEO and the actress and star of the day.
I ate the most delicious hamburger I had had in a while. When we finished our meal, the actress, who is also a jeweler, handed me a little suede bag with crystal earrings inside that matched my necklace. I spilled one tear of happiness and gratitude. "You light up so beautifully", she said.
I grabbed a buggy to take them to the beach. We drove over a wooden bridge to cross part of the lagoon. For the first time in four years, I saw an adult crocodile who came out to say hello. It might sound frightening, but it wasn't. They have plenty of food in the canals of Mayakoba, and since I started working there, I had always wished to see one. I thanked my father for this birthday present.
I got called into a surprise meeting. "Are you kidding me? Who is calling this meeting? Don't you see that I'm barely keeping it together?" I texted my colleague group chat. My team had arranged for a cake in my honor. They sang and they hugged me. My boss burnt her fingers to light a match in lieu of a candle, "make a wish", said the blond Spaniard.
I would finally go home. My ex-husband decorated the living room and bought celebration coned hats. My mother drove for an hour to be with me, and she brought my favorite GF chocolate cake which she made herself. She held her tears. That night there would be no sadness. I laughed until my stomach ached with jokes told by close and dear friends.
The following day I talked to my mother about tough topics I hadn't had the courage to talk about before. I felt the tears crawling. I warned her: "Mom, if I start crying please don't stop me, let me say what I need to say". It worked. I spoke about some powerful truths, amongst them I said "we are too old to feel shame on trying something we want or being afraid of failing". I could see this was new acquired information for me as well. She didn't try to stop me, she didn't hug me. She took it all in. I wondered if it was actually possible to talk while crying, and still be taken seriously.
I was determined to spend the weekend in Merida, my father's birth city. I hadn't been able to do so in a long time. I would spend time with my sister, who was going through additional grief, and I would finally meet my best friend's third daughter.
I arrived on Saturday morning. I would go to my friend's house just in time for lunch.
I imagined a picnic in the yard. With plastic wrapped sandwiched and plenty of social distance with no hugs and lots of hand sanitizer. I was grateful for being able to be there even if it was a few feet away.
My friend opened the door and welcomed me with the first hug we had given each other in over a year. I realized just how much I needed it and I cried freely in her arms, letting it all go.
To my surprise, my other best friend was also part of the party. She was the first person to tell me jokes when I had just moved into the city at thirteen years old. She was also new in our high school, yet instead of staying quiet on her seat like I did, she approached me by saying "Do you want to hear something funny?". She had made me cry in laughter even before knowing my name.
My two best friends had set up a small feast to celebrate my birthday, our reunion after so long, and the good fortune of having each other. We ate, drank, laughed, and that was enough. I was happy.
That night I returned to my sister's house. She was my first friend in the world since I started understanding her words, even before I could reply with my own. She cried with me, we cursed the world, we opened bottles of wine. We called our younger brother, and we shared how each of us has dealt differently with our father's loss. Nevertheless, only us and my older brother know what it feels like to lose the best father that has set foot in this world.
The next day, my nephews slept in because of how late they stayed out the previous night. My then husband went out to get breakfast. My sister and I shared the kitchen silently. I felt like telling her about a miscarriage I had a couple of years back. This is a very common experience amongst fertile heterosexual women. That fact doesn't make it any less painful. She reprimanded me, "Why didn't you tell me before?". I told her I didn't feel like crying. "What do you mean? You cry about everything, all the time." She was right. I finally caught on. "I do cry about everything, all of the time. I just wasn't ready to cry about this particular thing in front of you".
Yes! I have always been sensitive. My body reacts immediately to joy, guilt, love and pain. This is me; this is who I have always been. I have learned to contain my feelings to prevent going screaming or crying through life. Instead I walked silently, trying to figure out what I felt, just enough to filter it before talking and not scare anyone.
Every time I stop myself from crying, this energy turns into small nodules of pain that accumulate on my back until they stop my neck from moving freely. I am a cry-baby, or as my father would say "chechona". It doesn't make me weak, coward or stupid. I have an incredible ability to feel, and if I let it flow, my ideas, creativity and everything flows with me. I cry for nearly anything, and that is part of what makes me, me.
I have promised to rid myself of the crying taboo. I am sure it will take some time, the same way it took me years to learn how to hold it. My goal for the next 37 years is to recognize my emotions without being paralyzed, and I will be proud of one more thing in this beautiful journey.
Without knowing about this new promise to myself, every time I would see someone about to cry at work (because I'm an expert in this), I would ask them if they were ok. Whenever they would say they felt like crying, I would say "Come, do it in my office, I'll get you some tissue. When you're done you'll wash your face and get on with your day". From now on I will take my own advice.
By the way, in my thirties I also learned how to equalize my ears to avoid the pain during flights. The trick is to watch out for when they first pop. You need to imagine blowing a balloon, but with your mouth closed while pinching your nose so the air goes to your ears, therefore releasing the pressure. Do this softly several times until you feel them un-pop. Repeat as needed.
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