"More women cry, loudly or silently, every fraction of every moment, in every town of every country, than anyone–man or woman–realizes. We cry for our children, our lovers, our parents, and ourselves. We cry in shame because we feel no right to cry, and we cry in peace because we feel it’s time we did cry. We cry in moans and we cry in great yelps. We cry for the world. Yet we think we cry alone."
Marianne Williamson
Tears Talk
My friend, Sophie, is sitting on the couch across from me, cradling a tall mug of Green Tea in her hands. We are talking about our own unique experiences with depression.
Her face is pinched with remorse as she tells me about the time one of her friends, many years ago, confessed to being depressed. Wanting to be a devoted buoy during this season of sorrow, Sophie explains how she showed up on her friend’s doorstep with a huge smile on her face, and the Bobby McFerron C.D.
Don’t Worry, Be Happy in her hand. In Sophie’s mind, she most certainly held the faith-fix for her suffering friend. She thought the problem was simply an attitude that needed boosting.
Sophie’s chin falls, "If I had known then what I know now..." Her voice catches and falters. She looks up at me for a second, her soulful brown eyes searching mine. Then, she begins studying her pink beaded bracelet, gently fingering it, failing to finish her sentence. It’s in the midst of her life-altering "breakdown" that Sophie and I’ve become friends.
"Don’t you think it’s hard for people to know what to do when they can’t peek inside of us and see what’s broken?" I ponder. "If my arm were in a cast, it would be a different story. It’d be easier for others to have compassion."
Sophie shifts quietly and glances out the window. A cardinal lights on the bare branches of the maple tree in my front yard, then quickly changes its mind–a flash of crimson as it flutters away. The branch is left shivering from the bird’s escape.
Looking down at her tea, Sophie begins twisting the mug in her hands, around and around. "People think I’m fine. . .but. . . inside...." she chokes, and begins to cry. We both pause.
It is a holy moment.
I look at the sunny-yellow votive burning on my coffee table, then back to Sophie. She has tucked her feet underneath herself and pulled a couch pillow onto her lap. Sensing this is only the first of many mournful mornings we’ll share, I sit patiently with her pain.
Sophie can’t verbalize what’s wrong just yet, but I know her tears can.
They gather in her dark wondering eyes like wise words.
Seasons of Suffering
Even though it’s healing, it can be hard to cry–choking, sputtering, and uttering half-strangled moans as tears rise up from somewhere unseen. They bully and push their way through a restricted throat and pinched face before springing to freedom– falling like delicate pearls from the corners of our eyes.
The irony is, depression can birth tears daily. Our souls can become bottomless wells that gurgle up under the slightest ounce of pressure: the thought of going to work, a pile of dirty dishes, an overdraft notice, a tender glance from a spouse, a blue-eyed baby on a magazine cover, a sticky closet door, children begging to play, a sock that gets lost in the dryer, clouds in the sky.
Crying for hours on end, we can wonder about the source of so many tears. And although we can name things in our lives that are perhaps good reason to cry, it feels like our souls have bigger stories to tell. Somehow we know that crying gives voice to our deepest needs, aches, fears and desires.
We speak a language without words.
Women experience loss on so many different levels, daily, it’s surprising we don’t melt into a pool of tears more often. Some of us mourn lost childhoods. We say goodbye to our innocence. We give up certain freedoms when we choose to get married, have children, or take certain jobs. We weep when important relationships become strained. We long for the babies our bodies refuse to conceive.
Others of us regret certain choices. We cringe when the bathroom mirror reflects a body that’s too curvatious, or not curvy enough. We worry we’re not the mothers we’d hoped to be–more maternal, patient, perfect. We grieve when our children grow up, get married, or move away. We mourn our age, our vulnerability, and sometimes even our femininity. And when we retire, we wonder if we’ve lost our place and prominence in a world that caters to the beautiful, wealthy, and young.
Suggesting women grieve these things is not to say we’re all alike. Rather, it points to the way grief cycles and seeps into our lives like seasons. And when we get stuck in a long and lonely winter, inevitably we ask,
Why’s this happening to me? Too often our answers leave us pointing critical fingers at ourselves, compounding feelings of failure, loss and remorse. And so we kick our pain to the curb for telling the truth.
But what if, instead, we welcomed feelings of loss into our living rooms, bedrooms, laundry rooms, and kitchens? What if we poured sadness a cup of coffee and invited our tears to talk? Or, gave grief a place on the couch, listening to its stories about who we once were, and who we could be today? What if we made room for loss to lie down with us at night, whispering promise of possibility, passion, hope and joy?
What if we learned from our pain, and received its soul-transforming gifts?
(This is the first entry in a series about listening to depression. For more on the genesis of this topic, please read my post: Tis the Season. All these posts will connect. . .so check back soon for more.)
