Sometimes I do it on purpose. Play the sad song. Because I can feel it sitting in my throat. The big old lump that just won’t seem to budge on its own.
So I open Spotify, search for Sarah McLachlan and hit play. Usually the first song that plays is Angel. Fool proof. The tears stream and energy seems to move, albeit slowly. But the lump is not gone by the end of the song. So I find another song. Gravity by Sara Bareilles. Another good choice. The tears run.
And I let them. With every waterworks, every big old messy fucking yawn, every stretch and crack and pop of my joints – I can breathe a little easier.
These are messy moments. The salt water mixed with mascara. My shorter hair doesn’t completely pull back into a ponytail so it falls alternately in my face and then gets pushed back, wet with tears. These are not the dainty Awwww, she’s sad kind of cries. These are ugly fucking cries.
Maybe I’m just tired. I know I’m tired of trying to figure this out. Who knows. It could be some deep ancestral trauma or an ex-boyfriend or a couple times of sex that I wished was a boyfriend or the last episode of Transparent I just watched.
If I close my eyes and let it continue to flow, eventually . . . eventually, I feel empty. Empty and exhausted. And that’s a good place to start.
And now, Rocket Man.