Will Cry for Booze

Skillset includes: Crying in very public spaces. Not by choice.

It just happens.

Along the road of life, I learned to quite adeptly sweep any incoming emotion under the surface of my conscious expression, only allowing feelings of happiness and annoyance to be displayed. People like happy people. People also like to complain. It’s very navigable system.

I have a particular proclivity to push down sadness at any hint of its arrival. It bubbles up in the most modest of simmers to which I effortlessly respond to by putting a lid on the pot and extinguishing the heat.

This only thwarts my objective to control it. The sadness, the grief, and the tears vow to find me and do so when I am least expecting it. They find me in the most publicly vulnerable of locations: the back of a cab driving from Guatemala City to Antigua; on a plane from Madrid to Mallorca, Spain; on a rainy bus ride from Palomino to Santa Marta, Colombia; and on a regional train between Parkesburg, Pennsylvania, and Newark, New Jersey. And coffee shops. So many coffee shops.

In one particularly vulnerable incident, the tears of sadness find me on a small plane traveling from Oaxaca City to Mexico City.

I look at the seat assignment on my ticket and am pleasantly surprised to see I am in row 1. My heart leaps in hope that it’s an emergency exit row. I have always dreamed of being randomly assigned the coveted exit row seat on a long, international flight so that I can stretch out and fully enjoy the extra space to cozy up. My time has come and I balk at my luck.

WHO? ME? They shouldn’t have.

I greet the flight attendants like I'm Miss Congeniality and tell them they shouldn't have.

Really. They shouldn't have.

As I approach my seat, I find that exit row 1 directly faces exit row 2. And all the following rows for that matter. I sit in seat 1B to find myself mere feet from the passenger in seat 2B. We are so close, we could play footsies if we wanted. At first, it’s a dance of where to set our eyes. There are only so many places you can look when three people sit directly in front of you at eye level. The seating arrangement is so ridiculous that I find it incredibly amusing. I settle into the situation with a smile and some happy tunes.

As we reach elevation and roll through the air, I sink into the moment and fold into myself. The magical feeling of travel washes over me and I surrender to its flow. In my immediate circumstance, I have no report to write, no job to wake up for, no daily regimen to stick to. I am liberated and free. I breathe in the deepest gratitude for the experience I have crafted. Ever since I first heard the strange name of Oaxaca and about the peculiar chocolate chile sauce it’s famous for, it’s been on my heart and on my mind. Seventeen years after first hearing the name Oaxaca, I hover miles above it in dreamland, literally and metaphorically—with my head in the clouds.

I suspect that it is here, in the midst of feeling the bigness of the world, that I feel safest. There is something soothing and comforting in this safe space. It’s as if I’m wrapped up in an over-sized down comforter in a bed filled with soft pillows. My nervous system calms and disregards the strangers around me. I am so comfortable within myself that I feel safe to experience the emotions I have subconsciously buried deep within.

I avoid sadness because I felt this emotion so deeply with the passing of my father and I didn’t have the resources to process it. I was never comfortable feeling, much less expressing, this sadness. The pain I associated with this emotion became so unbearable, so excruciating, that I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid it.

But in burying sadness, I have only granted it free rein to fester. This means that I do not have sovereignty over when I experience it. It jumps at the onset of a blissed-out homeostasis and explodes from the surface. Now, on this plane, as I face complete strangers, positioned so close we could hold hands, the tears start flowing down my face as a spectacle for all to see.

I am in the most vulnerable of states — both emotionally and physically. Not only am I so close in proximity to these strangers but my choice of clothing is rather reflective of how naked I feel. I don a sheer black mini dress with absolutely nothing underneath. It’s the type of dress that looks fabulous without a bra and I have 0 clean undies left from battling an unrelenting UTI. I was changing them 3 times a day and am now fresh out of clean undies.

But the tears don’t care. They don’t even ask, they just fall without permission. They have no qualms that the entirety of the situation is precarious. I have nothing to hide behind or underneath. It’s just me, a sheer sheet of fabric, and plane filled with people.

But this is not my first rodeo. This is the umpteenth time tears have found me in a public location. Over time, I have become amused and quite fond of this endearing display of emotion. I recognize the sudden onslaught of sadness as grief’s desperate plea to be seen. It’s the child inside me wanting to be heard, seen, and loved. So, I wear my tears proudly. They stream down my face with steady cadence and I don’t even attempt to brush them away. They roll down my chin and drip onto my chest, onto my heart. This is how I choose to accept and acknowledge their presence.

I am curious to know if my peers can see me. I feel brave and look, not only in their direction, but into their faces. A feisty, good-humored part of me dares them to acknowledge me and my brazen tears.

I envision a bonding interaction in which one of them asks what’s wrong. I will tell them about my crushed heart and laugh to assure them that the tears and sadness are welcome, as is the company of these six strangers sitting family-style on an airplane. The focus will turn to me and I will feel their compassion from their concerned expressions. We will all laugh as the older man cancels my order of a glass of wine and asks the airline attendant to bring us the whole damn bottle.

“Will cry for booze?” I muse. God, I would like to think there’s a part of me that’s not that tacky, but the truth is, I am definitely that tacky. Perhaps Amazon has a graphic t-shirt promoting such tackiness.

This communal cry session does not happen, so I settle for maxing out the volume to listen to my most favorite of tunes.

I dance a little in my seat: after all, I’m essentially immune to humiliation in my current state. Music soothes the grief that consumes me. It’s as if the music is brushing my hair or rubbing my back as I cry. It does not interrupt or reason with me. It just sits alongside me, its mere presence ensuring that I’ll be okay. 

Paradoxically, I feel safest when I completely relinquish my power to something or someone else. Each time I set foot into a mode of transportation, regardless of the type, it’s as if I’m stepping into a safe container. I have faith that whomever is navigating the machinery will get me to my desired destination. I needn’t worry about directions or traffic: all I have to do is settle into my seat and look out the window. It’s the recurring leitmotif of transportation that delivers me not just to a different location, but to a different mindset.

It’s there where I feel safe to fully inhale life and exhale that what binds me. It’s with sparkling eyes and a clear mind that I see the vista spread out before me and I am able to immerse myself in the bigness of the World. I can experience a deep connection to Source and to Self. I have complete faith in the simple, yet intricate plan—or lack thereof—of the Universe. It’s the paradox of feeling a part of it all and yet part of nothing in particular. This faith in Source reinstates faith in Self.

This is what traveling does for me. It helps me tap into this flow state in which I am balanced and whole. In this state, I trust myself whole-heartedly to feel every qualm, quake, and quiver of any emotion that arises. My faith and trust in myself are so deep that I welcome the emotions, even at their most extreme intensity. I open the door and cordially invite them to flood my body, spirit, and soul.

Through trusting myself to feel, I trust myself to heal.