I used to enjoy a good cry. Before I got depressed, I would sometimes even deliberately watch or read something that I knew would lead to a good, healthy cry that would get out any tension. A full-on, weep-till-you-can’t-see-hope-you-don’t-bump-into-your-flatmate sobbing that would leave me wrecked and relaxed. I hardly ever cried at anything that wasn’t TV, film or the odd book; rarely anything personal.
Depression has robbed me of that pleasure. Now I dread the tears. They are no longer relaxing or a way to alleviate stress. They now last for hours, they are personal, they wreck my body and leave me twisted and aching (and sometimes covered in cuts and bruises), they frighten my friends and they alienate me from them and from myself. They leave me exhausted and questioning who I am.
I wish I could go back to the time before. I try to remember those things that made me cry flippantly and for fun:
- March of the Penguins
- When the old man gets released in The Shawshank Redemption
- When Dawn comes back for Tim
- When Harry runs across NY for Sally to spend New Year’s Eve with her and confess his feelings
- Almost every episode of Grey’s Anatomy but especially when they realise it’s George
- Christian the Lion
- when Nino finds Amelie (and when the old guy gets to eat chicken with his grandson)
- the last hundred pages of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin and the final pages of the Time Traveller’s Wife
- when Jim asks Pam to dinner
- when Chris Chambers disappears at the end of Stand By Me
- the scene with the homeless man’s dogs in Amores Perros
- Simon Russell Beale reading Hamlet’s soliloquy
- sad old people in general
- mistreatment or perceived sadness of animals (especially cute and intelligent ones; yes, I really am that shallow: Project Nim, Blackfish, Koko the gorilla…)
There’s a lot more. I avoid these nowadays but one day I look forward to going back to them and joyfully weeping for no real reason.