I realized I can’t make myself cry any more.

I used to have the knack of it. When my internal unprocessed stress level got high enough, I could will myself to cry and thus get the wonderful catharsis of crying.

But I can’t seem to do that any more. I try and I just end up concentrating on my breathing and doing my breathing exercises instead.

Maybe you need properly oxygenated lungs with no CO2 buildup to cry, I dunno.

But I miss it. Crying is awesome. It changes everything, Things that seemed insurmountable before are suddenly no big deal. Pressures you thought were going to kill you are gone. Problems that were driving you crazy suddenly have simple solutions.

It makes everything better, and all for the paltry price of bawling you eyes out for a little while. Seems like a bargain to me.

So I would like to get it back. But without the ability to trigger it at will, that means the only way to get it back is to do something quite alien to my nature : deliberately seek out sad things that will unlock my tears.

Women, being smart, do this all the time. They seek out sad movies or books or whatever because they know they will feel a lot better after a good cry.

Men are not so sophisticated, not even fags like me. Our reasoning is “Being sad is bad, Me no want be sad. So me no cry. Plus, if me cry, other men will make fun of me and destroy my value as a human,. ”

Or something like that.

There are things I know will make me super sad.

This, for one :

Pretty much all of The Fox And The Hound. The last ten minutes of All Dogs Go To Heaven, when they are talking to the little girl before going back to Heaven.

I must have non-animated-feature ones but right now my mind’s a blank.

As it stands now, I tend to only cry when the right thing comes along when I am in a very emotionally vulnerable state. A perfect storm of circumstances.

And that doesn’t happen too often. Obviously.

Perhaps if I search the corridors of my mind enough, I will find the new location for my waterworks and be able to let things out again.

Or maybe I will learn to stop being such a pussy and go watch something super sad.

Sure, crying isn’t fun, but the catharsis is. It’s like a painful and uncomfortable medical procedure that relieves a very painful and serious condition.

Or hell, like getting a rotten tooth pulled.

It seems like it must be a solvable problem. Might involve doing something that seems weird and wrong to me, but there are worse fates.

Or, I suppose, I could just keep pouring it out here in the form of spontaneous prosetry where the images flow like floodwater and I enter a trancelike state where I am even less connected to the world than usual as I transcribe my pain.

Kind of a clumsily indirect way of doing it, but it works for me.

Yeah. I’ll do more of that in the future.

More after the break.

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Let’s start here

It’s as good a place as any.

Lately, my recovery has felt like I am painstaking pulling icicle daggers out of my heart.

It’s a slow and delicate operation and each dagger removed has only the smallest of effects, but over time I start to feel better.

Still not the dramatic transformational spiritual event I long for, but without religion or at least some sort of mystic tradition, there’s little chance of that anyhow.

My mind follows the rules of reality and is thus quite limited in what tricks it can pull in order to try to heal itself.

Maybe I need to get really, really stoned. I dunno. It’s worked for others.

I could certainly use something to loosen up the strictures of my mind and allow for some kind of transcendent healing.

Some pot, maybe a microdose of acid, a truly good deep massage, maybe a light dose of a painkiller. All to get myself into a really loose, relaxed, receptive frame of mind that can make the necessary transformations of healing.

Right now, my rigid brain structure stands in the way, demanding things follow logically and make sense and all that useless bullcrap.

Look, Brutal Truth Machine, that’s all well and good for a certain quite potent kind of thought. My spectacular powers of analysis stem directly from that structure.

But you are not omnipotent. And your path does not and cannot lead to the answers I seek. So forgive me if I leave you behind and seek another way.

And I am not scared of your power any more, Brutal Truth Machine.

Because you work for ME.

Admittedly, it can seem strange to be afraid of the power of your own mind, but I think I have figured out the root.

It’s that my mind is inhumanly powerful. It operates beyond normal limitations and therefore my soul simply does not know how to handle it.

It’s not like I had any freaking role models.

I’m keenly aware of what a merciless robot that part of me can be. And I know it’s the reason I see things nobody else does, which is not as fun as it sounds.

Can be quite alienating, actually.

And having powers far beyond most mortals is inherently scary, at least to me. I feel like I live in Lilliput and have to always be very very careful where I put my feel lest I crush some poor peasant without even knowing it.

No wonder I mostly stay put.

I am sure that my sense of how much a danger I am to others must be grossly exaggerated. I mean, yeah I am super smart on many levels, but not to such an extent than puny Earthlings need to be protected from my terrible power.

And yet, when I try to interact with normal people, the vast gulf between where I am mentally and where they are makes it very very difficult and extremely confusing.

I am also hampered by my insistence on being genuine 24/7. I can’t just make up a phony persona I use to deal with mundanes. It’s just not in me.

So I guess I will just keep on being scary and weird.

You’d think I would be pretty good at it by now.

I will talk to you nice people again.