I’ve Got a Leak

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How many times can a girl cry in one week?

Ready for a post that starts out like this? Just keep reading...

I don’t have an answer. It’s only Tuesday, and the number is higher than I’d ever want it to be. I’m speaking from experience here. If I can make it one day without waterworks this week, it will be my Easter miracle.

Only the release of the Hunger Games can match my excitement for this movies' rerelease.

What’s going on, you might be asking yourself. I’ve been asking my inner self this very question on and off again over the past few weeks. What’s going on with me? It could very easily be PMS rearing its ugly, hormonal head on a worse scale than usual. It could be the fact that Titanic in 3D is being released tomorrow and my sub-conscious has been awaiting this day for almost a year now, and my estrogen levels just can’t handle it anymore. (But, seriously, I’m so pumped for its release. I’m not excited for the 3D aspect…how in the heck do you turn a movie about the ‘unsinkable’ luxury hotel-on-water modernized-hull ship into an epic through 3D movie? I guess I’ll find out. Truth be told, I’m just excited to see it on the big screen again. I haven’t had a movie experience quite like Titanic ever since. Not even with Avatar…and that was a 3D epic adventure.)

They make estrogen pills. Do they make its twin, the testosterone pill? There are too many tears falling down this face as of late. Not only do I not enjoy crying in public, but I hate how tired it makes me feel afterwards. I read an article a long time ago about how you’re supposed to actually feel happier after crying. Something to do with the sudden release of hormones (which may or not be considered ‘toxic’. The build-up of hormones prior to crying, that is) and once everything is all cried out, you feel better because those ‘bad’ hormones have been released, and you feel an endorphin rush. Something along those lines.

I'm still waiting for that gleeful post-cry moment.

Here’s my question: Where’s my flood of happiness and lightness? I’ve been crying my eyes out, and I feel worse than before I started shedding the water from my eyeballs, making myself look like a hot mess. I have such a headache, the spots behind my eyeballs ache, and my patience is walking a tight rope. I absolutely love being at a job that requires me to be ever the gracious host at all times when I’m feeling like this.

Perhaps the flood gates have been opened in preparation for what is sure to be a flood when watching this scene happen once more on the big screen?

It doesn’t help my mood, either, that one of my coworkers comes up to me and starts comparing me to another girl who works here. Apparently, I’m not as cheery as her. How many times do I have to spell it out? I’ve already told you I’m not having a good day. Please make it worse by comparing my bad-day mood with someone else’s cheery, I’m-having-a-great-day mood. I wanted to tell him to go screw himself in a non-ladylike manner, but I bit my tongue. I don’t need him feeling miserable about himself either, despite the adage that misery loves company.

Can I just crawl into bed and end this day?

So, what’s a girl to do when she feels on the edge of sanity? She hurriedly walks down a busy hallway, fighting back the gobs of tears threatening to break through the floodgates at any moment, and takes unnaturally deep breaths in the attempt to calm said furried floodstorm quickly approaching. She whips out her phone and calls the one person who always knows how to make it better: her mother. The instant she hears her mother’s words of “What’s wrong?”, the flood gates fail. The girl now stands in the nearest corner she could make it to, and lets everything out. Everything…gasps of air, words that are probably difficult to understand, the torrential rainfall of misery in water form, her longing to go home for the weekend’s upcoming holiday and be with her family, and much more misery.

The more I tell myself not to cry, the harder it gets to keep the tears at bay.

One of the things I hate doing most? Crying in public. Everyone you don’t know who see’s you instantly becomes awkward, those who see you and do know you feel obligated to comfort you by asking what’s going on, and then I have this personal problem with my eyes turning a very unattractive red color and puffing up like a puffer fish so I just look…puffy. Then, you have the issue of a runny nose, and of course, you never have tissues when you have breakdown like that, so you’re trying to take care of that in some fashion that doesn’t leave your hands or clothes in a disgusting manner. Avoid everyone’s gaze when you muster enough energy to push yourself out of the corner you took refuge in, and continue on your way. That special post-cry walk of misery is a time I hope no one I know runs into me. I know what I look like, and probably am in desperate need to blow my nose another six times, and if I run into someone I know, I’m in for 20 questions that I do not want to answer at that exact moment.

Can we be anymore nosy? Hmmmm?

Step number two after talking with my wonderful mother? Throw my music as loud as I can to drown out the voices speaking a million miles an hour in my mind, and pull into a McDonald’s parking lot. My comfort food? McDonald’s fries, even though it’s going straight to my thighs the instant a grain of salt hits my tongue. I did well holding myself back from totalling bottoming out. I ordered a small fries (not a large! Patting myself on the back for that one) and a Caesar salad.

Chocolate therapy...the invention of a genius.

Better than a Big Mac or a double cheeseburger, okay?

I do know I have a king-size Hershey’s bar waiting in my cupboard, along with a pack of Oreos and freshly baked cookies on my counter. I can’t promise my resolve will hold out when I walk through my door this evening.

“I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.”

You’re tumbling around is a little different from mine, Louise Bogan. She had an affair with fellow poet Theodore Roethke.

I wonder if she ever penned a lyric or two about her trysts.

I think that’s every lovers’ dream. To be remembered forever passionately in some way, when the relationship falls to pieces for whatever reason. But to be that girl he remembers through every relationship, through every kiss, through every single moment he spends away from you and not with you whether he’s truly moved on from you or keeps trying to convince himself of it…a girl will be lying to you if she said there wasn’t one romantic tryst in her past that she wished hadn’t ended. That she still thinks about at one point or another. But we’re all allowed to have our secrets, and whether we want to share them or not.

Steamy and passionate...what every romantic connection should be.

As old Rose says in Titanic of Jack Dawson, “And I’ve never spoken of him until now… Not to anyone… Not even your grandfather… A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets. But now you know there was a man named Jack Dawson and that he saved me… in every way that a person can be saved. I don’t even have a picture of him. He exists now… only in my memory.

Her words are deep...deep like the ocean.

I try to remind myself that crying is not a form of weakness. It’s a sign that you’ve been strong and holding things inside for too long.

If anything, I hope my tumbles prove useful when I put words to the page with my next novel idea. Best writing advice I’ve ever received is to write about what you know. Well, I know about misery at the moment, that’s for sure. There’s light at the end of the tunnel, no doubt. I’m sure I’ll come out all sunshine and smiles when this phase passes. But, for the moment, I’m tumbling.

Dudes dig scars, right?

Here’s to a brighter tomorrow. Cheers!

Raise a glass of anything. I prefer bubbly.
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