feminist crying
I thought I’d cry at LAX, maybe when I passed that Starbucks before you exit security, maybe when I stood at the curb waiting, not for his familiar car, but for a rental shuttle bus. I woke early that first morning and took a coffee to the beach and sang to myself and walked a mile, giving myself permission to grieve, but still, not a drop.is #feminist crying a thing yet? can we make it a thing?
#CRYING BLOG 2K12 #cc:karaj #feminist crying
REBLOGGING WITH HASHTAGS. we’re saying it’s a thing.
I listened to every happy song, every sad song while I made the drive up north. I sat in a basement studio at CalArts and watched him make love to another woman on screen—a rough cut of my best friend’s film, and though it made my stomach turn to acid and my heart stop with panic and recognition, and me gulp my entire glass of wine in a swallow, my eyes were still dry.
I walked alone in arroyos. I ate tacos. I drove on the 405. I went thrifting.
It was drizzling when I packed my car in Santa Clarita. As I drove down the 5 to LAX, the rain picked up, until my tinderbox Ford Fiesta rental was hydroplanning every other mile, and the radio station kept rolling in and out of static. I started crying big thick drops, and then deep, heaving sobs.
I’m not sure what, exactly, feminist crying is. But know it happens after you own every inch of every decision you’ve made and and how they’ve changed you, and when you mourn, just a little bit, for the self you left behind.
