Why can't I cry?

A personal essay on crying, societal beliefs and glamorised tears on the Internet

I have developed a rather intriguing relationship with crying over the course of my life: from when I was a child up until now, with all the in-betweens everyone goes through, my thoughts and feelings on the act itself have evolved and I am now reflecting about its importance in my personal existence.

For starters, I firmly believe that being able to efficiently let tears stream down your face is a skill: I think some people have a better disposition at it and for unknown reasons they can do it so easily, almost nonchalantly, every time they feel certain emotions. In other cases, some weep whenever they want to, almost as if it was an old party trick they learnt and mastered, one they can always resort to when needed.

On the other hand, here I am, a 22-year-old man who rarely succeeds in crying. Some might wonder what that actually means and the only way I can try to describe my problem is that, whenever I am particularly emotional (because of the touching film I am watching, or an incredible song I’m listening to, a beautiful piece of writing I came across or simply because I am experiencing something in my life that alters my feelings) the only physical reaction I get is a slight wetness in my eyes that never turns into actual tears. I usually joke about it with my friends and tell them I am physically unable to shed teardrops, yet this impediment unnerves me a great deal.

Picture this: it’s Friday night, you are home alone and you just had a terrible week, one that seemed never ending, filled with troubles and worries; in situations like these, many would have a nice crying session, to release at least part of the pent-up stress in their bodies and enter the weekend less burdened by the weight the previous days put on their shoulders. For some, simply reliving bits of what happened can do the trick, while others know what they can do to summon those freeing tears.

It doesn’t really take a genius to understand why numerous people are in touch with their tear ducts either: it is scientifically proven that “crying releases oxytocin and endogenous opioids, also known as endorphins. These feel-good chemicals help ease both physical and emotional pain”.

Having found this out, I suddenly envied all the friends and acquaintances who were capable of crying, because they were literally cleansing their bodies for free, whereas I was left with my bundle of emotions and no outlet to get rid of them: I can recall the numerous times I wished I could let the tears out and didn’t manage to and it is really quite sad, because it feels as if I am forced to hold things in, deprived of the chance at lightness others get.

L’Ange déchu, Alexandre Cabanel, 1847

When I started pondering on this matter, I immediately thought about the age-old perpetrated narrative men were constantly told, and inherently taught: we cannot show our emotions (the ones that indicate vulnerability at least), we have to hide tears, suppress them even, dispose of them as fast as possible, before anyone else, especially other men, see it. While I write this, I can’t help but notice how crazy this sounds, given what research shows and the evidence for its impact and benefits, and yet entire generations were convinced that weeping was “wrong” and that no matter what happened in their lives, they should reduce their teardrops to the smallest possible number… It is a sad, almost sorrowful realisation, but little can be done to change what was. I can only hope that from now on, little boys will know that they are not “less” for showing their emotions and that, as they grow up, they are never told not to do it, for sensitive people are just as strong, if not stronger, than those who hide their feelings behind a fake armour of toughness.

Once I decided to plan for this piece, I gave myself time to think back on the moments during which I distinctly remember crying while growing up: I have a stellar memory when it comes to remembering my life and I can recount instants from as early as my second birthday party, so I have quite an extensive collection of memories from my childhood. I can confidently say that, as a kid, I cried very easily and that’s mainly because I was good at crying: I knew how to turn on the waterworks and I did it every time I felt like it or needed it, because I was confident it would work on adults. I bawled at any minor inconvenience and injustice in my eyes, so as to get attention, be comforted or even get what I wanted and as a consequence I turned out to be spoiled and extremely needy (I have come to this realisation after working on myself and I accept that part of my upbringing now; there is nothing I can do to change my past behaviour, but I am aware of why I acted this way most of the time).

Somewhere along the way though, someone must've told me the infamous phrase: “boys don't cry” and I somehow internalised that very quickly, because after a certain age, whenever I felt my eyes water and my cheeks burning, I was conscious of how embarassing that was. Other kids my age would mock my sensitivity and bully me for my tears at school, whereas at home, a place where I thought I was safe from the harsh treatment I was dealing with in the outside world, where it used to be beneficial even to cry, because I would get my way and obtain what I desired, I started to be reprimanded too. The combination of these two unexpected and hurtful offences left an indelible mark in me and, from that moment, I started fearing my emotions and most of all, I was terrified at the thought of showcasing them to the world, because I knew I would be judged for them and the verdict would never be in my favour. I don't blame any particular person for treating me like that: kids don't know any better, they just repeat what they hear others say and their parents (mine too) were only partially at fault, because they were deeply conditioned to teach their sons (and daughters) these values, which are deeply rooted in our society’s beliefs.

As time passed, I stopped crying altogether: I went months (maybe even an entire year, I’m not sure) without doing it and I only slipped when I was in such distressing physical pain that I couldn't hold my tears in, or when I was grieving loved ones, to try and get rid of the loss I was feeling, while being in emotional despair. It seems logical to do so and it certainly is the best outlet to channel emotions, especially during those times; however, I was incredibly ashamed, because I thought that I had somehow failed by not hiding my tears in public, because it was a clear sign that I wasn't strong enough to hold them in. It took some efforts and errors, but I ended up mastering the art of concealing my real feelings when I was outside, among other people, by using all my mental strength to bottle them up and shut them down inside my body, while keeping up my appearance.

It was only and exclusively when I retreated to my room, in the middle of the night, where I knew no one but me could judge, that I freed my body from the constraints I imposed on myself while being out in the open world. That was the only luxury I thought I deserved at the time: a moment of sadness to decompress, my only chance at being emotional.

At first crying was easy: my muscle memory was still working and I simply needed to listen to a specific song and think deeply about past memories to start sobbing in just a matter of minutes; after feeling the salty water stream down my face and onto my neck, I felt relieved and lighter.

After a while though, when the hurt of my losses diminished, I tried resorting to my trusted melody for a crying session and to my disappointment, what once worked like magic, didn't: not a single tear streamed down, no humidity in my eyes.

I was shocked, I simply couldn't believe it. Despite all my active efforts, it seemed as though my eyes were completely dry, unable to provide even the smallest amount of water. What would I do now? How would I let go of my burdens when they started weighing on my shoulders?

The whole ordeal felt almost surreal: I had spent so much of my life suppressing my tears, I’d always thought there would be a never ending supply of water waiting for me; now that I longed for a good cry, the complete opposite fate seemed to be my reality, a drought of sorts had inhabited my body.

I felt victim of a robbery, one in which the stolen goods were forgotten by their very owner, who realised they were his only after the theft. It was as if someone had revoked my ability to weep after a careful period of consideration, once they made sure I had stopped using it for good.

The truth, however, was that I yearned for the emotional release it gave me (and everybody else) and I did not want to lose it at all in the first place: I was simply too scarred by what society had taught me, afraid of and puzzled by what I was holding in, so much so that I had completely changed my perception and attitude towards crying.

I am under the impression that, for the longest time, it was generally considered a flaw to be a crier, something to be hidden from strangers and even people in our life: this was the case for men clearly, but even women were inevitably considered “weak” for showcasing their emotions. This is what I had internalised as a kid and I didn’t really question the way things were, I just accepted this reality. When the pandemic hit, however, while the world essentially stopped, a clear shift happened, at least in my opinion: the shame around weeping started fading and it became common knowledge that everyone (men included) was doing it. Transparency around being emotional became “cool” and everyone began posting selfies with tears in their eyes, glamorising them, but simultaneously demolishing the façade people were used to putting on and changing the narrative around crying. There was almost an element of bravery in bearing it all in front of an audience -in real life and in front of a screen- and “emotionally available” men became the most sought after, applauded for breaking the norm and truly showing the world that indeed “boys cry too”.

You can imagine my frustration and anger in front of this new reality: now that I could potentially wear my heart on my sleeves and bawl a little more to feel better, without worrying about what others might think, I wasn’t able to… I was seeing friends and celebrities crying on social media, displaying their tears for others and I was bitter about it, because I could not physically do that; I would have never posted a photo like that, but I definitely wanted to at least capture a moment of emotional relief, to prove to myself that I managed to weep, just like the rest of the world (to my knowledge at least).

It is undeniable that men are still held up to a higher standard when it comes to showing their feelings: as much as I’d love to say otherwise, I still hear people looking down on emotional men and it is heartbreaking to me that in this day and age we are still so judgemental about a natural (and beneficial) human reaction… I still hope that as time passes, norms will change and it won’t be a surprise or a shock to see a person crying and I really wish for a more accepting world, one in which emotions are championed and no one feels forced to suppress theirs.

I do not know what led me to have such a hard time crying, I probably never will and unless I discover there is an actual medical explanation (which I doubt, but one can never know for sure these days…) for my “condition”, there is a part of me who will always try and explain it as a reaction (and a form of protection) to what I lived through when I was younger and how much shame that caused me.

My story does not have a happy ending, but it doesn’t end with tragedy either: I managed to break “the curse” and actually cry in the past, multiple times, but I could never tell you why in some cases I succeed and why most of the times I do not… all I can say is that now I always take a selfie when I do and I show it to my friends to demonstrate that I too have tears (even if they are just a few).

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If you’ve actually read up until here, thank you immensely for sticking with me: this is the first time I write such a personal (and long!) piece that heavily relies on my private life and I kept it in the drafts for a couple of weeks before opening it again and deciding to hit “publish”. I hope this essay of sorts can still be relatable and I’d deeply appreciate it if you let me know what you think about this type of posts.

Thanks again and see you soon!