Sometimes, I can’t figure myself out. Extreme sadness couldn’t make me cry. Even when I’m wallowing in near-depression, my expression would just change from blank to pained every five minutes. But I wouldn’t cry even when I force myself to. (I try to be normal once in a while.)
But anger… Boy, anger really gets my tear glands working. I’d go pale, splotchy, and cry like crazy. I could even go on for hours, depending on the circumstances.
There were a few times in my life when people saw me crying and they would instantly try to console me, thinking that I needed emotional support. Most likely, I was deeply furious with some person at that time, and I felt so frustrated with my inability to strangle them with my bare hands so I’d just cry. Or I could have been very, very upset or disappointed with myself.
Of course, there are exceptions. Two, in fact. I cried out of sadness: (1) when Papa Poly died, and (2) when Tita Cherry died.
Now why am I talking about this? Because I dislike myself right now. A lot. But not enough to cry.