My current and relatively new found ability to dampen my emotions, particularly those relating to sadness and grief, just seems to be getting worse. I am close to the stage now where I just wish I could cry at something, if for no other reason than to know I still can. But the longer it goes on, the more I think about it and once you start to think about crying, I wonder if it becomes that much harder to just let things go?
If I haven’t cried as a result of the tragic deaths that have made this such a depressing year, what would be an acceptable thing to cry about? We watched Stick on Apple TV tonight, a comedy programme for sure, but with enough elements within it to tug at the heartstrings. Among Owen Wilson and the outstanding cast’s comedy brilliance, there were Big Issues at play and some were extremely touching and I got to thinking: this is deeply moving. If I cry during this show, then what will it say about me that I didn’t cry following the death of so many dear friends and a much-loved close relative? No one else would need to know I started blubbing at a TV show and not as friends were dying, but I would know and I would seem to live with the sheer guilt that would cause. So, how far does this go and is there a logical ending to it?
Before, I have not tried to avoid crying. I have developed techniques for dealing with bereavement and my mood is affected by antidepressants. That’s a heady mixture, for sure, but I worry about how this is going. In trying to choke back any tears long before they appear, am I merely firing up some kind of emotional pressure cooker that one day will go Bang! and I’ll end up under a speeding train? I mean, I don’t feel that way right now, but I am not a person who believes in holding back the tears, seemingly unless they are mine.
I was brought up in a world where revealing one’s emotions was a taboo. I never got near getting inside the heads of any close family members to find out what made them tick or so as to find out what I should be doing. I was left to work all that stuff out myself. And of course, with no obvious skills in that area I have not made a good job at it.
When I lived alone, I cried a lot, but when I lived with, or was with family members or friends, rarely if at all. The last big cry I had – and I am sorry if you have read this a million times before – was when, as a mature (at least in age) middle-aged man, I was bullied and abused by my then employer the British Red Cross. And that was all part of a mental breakdown. It usually takes a lot to make me cry, but the British Red Cross was such a loathsome organisation, they made it quite easy. For the sake of being able to cry again, I would not want to experience something like that again.
You’d think that my clinical depression would make me cry, unless you understand something about clinical depression. It is, as I always say, an illness, not a matter of being fed-up or feeling sorry for myself, as I was frequently told in early life. And boys don’t cry, either. Not real boys, that is. Just soft boys. I was, I am, a bit soft, but no one is going to see it, not today, not tomorrow.
I’m having yet another annual health check in two weeks time, my second in five months. All my many physical ailments will be checked and naturally concerns about my mental health will be wholly ignored with a “I’m sorry, but …” as per usual. “You can’t have any therapy, you’re not allowed to have any more medication for your mental health because the drugs are bad for your physical health so just get on with it AND STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF!” The doctor, or more likely the nurse on duty, won’t use those words, but the meaning will be the same.
The techniques I have learned, some self-learned may be working too well. The antidepressants are blunting my true emotions. Yet I fear that without one or both, I won’t be able to carry on. That is the most depressing aspect of all.
