"I am woman, hear me CRY."

Women. Those over emotional sensitive creatures. What the hell is wrong with us anyway? In my opinion: Nothing. A lot of rightness comes through tears, and crying is inevitable if you are a woman. And that’s oKay.

We cry. We drop tears from ours eyes because we FEEL things and our inner self is aware of what we feel, and even when our face doesn’t show it, our mind still knows it and so we cry. We release the shit. Our tears are a sign of expression. It doesn’t have to be good or bad or over analyzed by the critical and judgmental kind. Our tears are shed for many reasons and yeah, most of the times we can’t even explain why in the hell these warm droplets are sliding down our cheeks in random spurts, but we know that it feels better to let them out than to hold them in and so, well, we cry.

We are women and our crying is a biological necessity. Our bodies are an estrogen and progesterone roller coaster and none of us agreed to getting on the ride. We are emotional beings and we FEEL. The more we FEEL, the more human we are. We are in touch with the deepest part of our soul. We dare to go there and risk to embrace it. Tears are a sign that we give a shit. We care. Our hearts are affected by the things that touch our lives, the things that disrupt our lives, and the things that leave our lives.

Only a true woman knows that tears can burst at the most inopportune moments and it doesn’t have to be defined by a single incident or explained in some rational fashion. Sometimes they shock the hell out of me, but when they want to come, they want to come, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Sometimes I think they build up inside our hearts like tiny little layers and suddenly spill when there’s not enough space to contain the anger and shield the frustration.

Certain words people say seem to trickle in and we think we let them go, but sometimes we don’t. Sometimes words linger and we can’t forget them. Sometimes our eyes feel like they’re growing big and heavy, the pupils burn and the upper lids sting, but we can contain it, we can hold that thin layer of liquid just long enough so that it dries up by the fourth blink and the tears hide away again. We control it. We say we’re being silly and may even giggle at this little game our tears are playing, but sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes that little lump that we hold at the core of our throat that seems to throb like a tiny swollen heartbeat can only sit there so long before it starts to convulse and then it falls into our heart and the tears rise up and it’s over. Release comes.

So we cry. What’s the big deal? We embrace the hurt and the joy in our lives, and whether or not we know the exact occurrence that broke this dam we tried to build, we just let the fuckin’ tide roll because we must. I think there’s an unsaid rule for every creature that was born with a vagina that we must, at least once a month have a good cry. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all. Sometimes I spend entirely too much time trying to figure out why in the hell I’m crying because I can’t quite put my finger on anything so drastic that should warrant such an array of tears, but I never find a decent answer. It’s an abundance of shit, but I’m sure that every tear flows for it’s own special reason and it isn’t meant to be understood either.

Tears are nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to judge. They are merely an orgasm of emotional build up, a bridge between our heart and our mind, they are a thought intensified. A good hard cry is inevitable, and then you hold your head high and start over again. It takes a strong woman to respect herself enough to cry her heart out and own it. “I am woman, hear me CRY.”