I love walking in the rain, 'cause then noone knows I'm crying.

See, the thing is... I'm changing.
Or becoming myself again.
Or something somewhere in between.
Whatever it is that's going on, I'm pretty sure it's good.
But man, its taking a lot of tears to get there.

I grew up with this idea that -- you don't cry. I've only seen my own mother cry a handful of times. And whenever she did, you knew it was something REALLY horrible. In fact, when she did cry, my dad would say, "Well, now you've done it. You made your mother cry."

I've come to think that this really did me a disservice. It elevates crying to some pedestal where it doesn't belong. And seems to limit tears to pain and grief. The more I cry, the more I get to discover tears that are not just a part of pain and grief. Tears, of course, can be a part of joy and gratitude.

I'm still crying. A lot.

"I'm laughing on the outside, but my smile is only skin deep. If you could see inside, I've really cried. You might join me for a weep."
-- The Joker, Batman

I often wonder what I would do if someone actually joined me for a weep. Would I even be able to cry with them?

I remember when I cried at my father's funeral. I called my best friend ahead of time and told her I was going to cry and asked her if she would be sure to leave me alone and just "let" me cry. Not surprisingly, she did. I neglected to inform my family members of my agenda, however, so my mother and one of my brothers - two people I have hardly ever see cry - rushed to my side as I knelt by my father's casket and wept. I felt so uncomfortable, I immediately (and I mean immediately) stopped crying.

It took me years to "finish" that cry. I don't actually know when I finished it. I just know I have. Because I no longer cry about my father's DEATH. If I cry about my father now, it's simply because of how much I MISS him. Earlier today, I imagined what I would feel like if I suddenly got to see him again and I immediately started to weep because I felt so happy even thinking about it. My, how I miss him.

I suspect people who know me (outside of the blogosphere) might be surprised by how much I cry. How sad I can get. How many times I feel lonely.

I have lots of friends. And people tell me I have a perceived social ease. But you know, whaddya gonna do.

I'm not pretending when I laugh or smile, of course. That's not it.

The other day I shared something with a colleague - a tragic and painful event. As I was telling him part of my story, I saw sympathy in his face. And so I laughed. And made a joke. Seeing the pain on his face and the sympathy he was extending felt painful. Actually, seeing his sympathy made me realize that the story I was telling was painful. And I didn't want to feel that. Sometimes, I just don't want to FEEL. So I laugh. Feeling self-conscious about my coping mechanism, I simply acknowledged it to him and asked him to understand that sometimes the way I cope is by laughing.

At a recent appointment with my doctor, she asked me if something hurt. I said, "No, it tickles." She said, "Ah, but feeling ticklish usually precedes the pain - at least in the kind of work I'm doing."

Perhaps that's the the way it works for me, too.

If feeling ticklish (laughter) can precede the pain, what does feeling the pain precede?

I, for one, am hoping for joy.