I have not done any formal reading on the philosophy of crying. So I do not know if such a topic even exists.
Crying is controversial. It is taboo.
We turn away at others who cry in public. We hide the tears in public if they are our own. It is an intimate event, or is it?
I have cried straight for at least seventeen years. Since I was a toddler, but technically I have been crying for the 23 of the years I have been alive, crying at my acknowledgement that I am a human now, materialistic and now I must exist as such independent of my mother’s body to supply me resources for survival.
Life is a sad event. I believe so. Life is awful, it is filled with atrocity and pain. I am alive and it is terrible. Please stop this pain on me, the infant screams.
Oxygen is too harsh against my lungs, and I do not know what to do with it. Doctors hands, which are so synthetic with their rubber gloves, are so foreign to the organic comfort of the womb from which I just came.
Better yet, the lights, the sounds, all of which I am not sure what to do with yet, are all confusing, and how is it that you made me become this being that has to figure this all out?
You yourself did not figure it all out before you made me, and now I must mourn my own fate of a life of ambiguity and unknowable fates to me.
I am sad to be alive, mother, father. I did not choose to become this. Consciousness is now inevitable, and I cannot turn it off without going past the programmed states of doubt and guilt and fear that stop me from exiting this puzzle.
Why am I hear, the infant screams. Why. Why Why Why.
Why must I be here, to figure this out. Why did you bring me here, and why, have you brought me into a life of misery to create me to help you figure out the puzzles that is your life.
Am I to solve all of your problems, mother? Am I to solve them. Tell me why I am here.
For I look around and I do not see a reason to live. There is war and torture. Pain and suffering in the homeless hands, taking food from garbage, taking rain onto their heads at night while they sleep on the benches of our parks.
I am not happy to be alive. And I wish you had not brought me here.
But now that I have seen this atrocity, I cannot leave it. And I am looking at these souls and they are begging for help.
Why we do not all exit I am not sure, but I think it is because we do not really want to.
We are sad and we must acknowledge this sadness and this atrocity, before we may appreciate life for what it is.
What people celebrate is birth, when they should mourn it, and celebrate death, for death is the accomplishment and reward for suffering a life of challenge, no matter the corner of the Earth.
Rich, poor, our material is the same, vulnerable to the same diseases and pains. We cannot escape the suffering that is existence by class or job title.
Let me cry, let me show the world how terrible it truly is. I worship the atrocity that is life, and submit my being to the suffering that is life.
For life is suffering, and I live for the suffering, I live to heal it. But to heal I must know what is healing and what is pain.
To apply the healing to the pain. I cannot apply healing to healing or I would not be fixing anything.
My sad tears did not start until a little later.
At first I cried in private, even away from my family, for my family was not comfortable with the handling of tears.
Then I met my aunt. We often discussed ideas about emotions and society’s expectations of them. Our discussions have partly led to my views on the emotions today.
Emotions are controlled by the industries, by rules. Like our bodily fluids, everything is controlled, and ironically they are the least fluid in their release.
If something is sad, I should cry about it. There is no shame in telling the world what is hurting me and making me crumble. My life has made me discover the true atrocious nature of human hypocrisy. Most people lie. There is not a single person who does not and does not fully know themselves.
I do not give them my feelings unless they have proven themselves to me first. They do not deserve these tears, but I may share them publicly, to let others know I have them. And that I had them. And they the world before me created them along with my naivety in the world’s ability to know what to do with my infant body and mind and self and soul.
Accepting my tears fosters independence that I have my own struggles. Social support cannot help me figure out what to do with my body and self. Break away from them, fuckers. I am sad, and you have let me down.
That is the truth, and I will tell it to you in your face with my expression and bodily arguments.