Crying is an enormous feature of my depression and anxiety. For a large part of life, I wasn’t much of crier at all. If a film (or even less frequently, a book) reduced me to tears, it had done a pretty good job. Then, as I grew older, I learnt to enjoy a good cry. There were even times when I would deliberately put on something I knew did the trick, just because I felt like a decent weep. And then I would emerge, refreshed but with slightly swollen eyes and a bit of a sniff. It was the grown up equivalent of going to the football on a Saturday and screaming obscenities at strangers then being calm and unflappable all week.
Now crying is only ever something I dread. Because when I cry now, I often can’t stop. I often don’t know why. And crying takes me to the deepest of depths. It means rocking and cutting and pitching and punching and wishing fervently, more than anything, that I was dead.