I’ve got a confession to make – I’m a big old cryer.
No, I’m not depressed and nor am I constantly sad. I’m just a highly emotional person with massive tear ducts, and I’ve reached an age where I give less f**ks about what people think of me.
I sit right on the edge of my feelings and experience raw (and very leaky) reactions to things in real time (kind of like a three-year-old but with a job, and a bank account, and whole lot of indoor plants).
The thing is, I’m not a sooky lala – I very rarely cry about things happening to me, I just cry about everything else.
I cry intermittently throughout my work week as I write the news, and I’m not sure whether I’ll ever be the kind of person who can read about terror attacks, miscarriages and domestic violence and not shed a tear for my fellow humans.
I cry when I see a particularly poignant ad on the TV or a cute dog meme on social media.
I cry when I see two strangers being nice to each other on the train.
I cry when I read my favourite author’s books and they’ve written something that I’ve felt so many times before but was never able to put in words.
I cry when I see strangers stopping to help someone who’s fallen over in the street.
I cry when I watch TV (especially when they play some epic, haunting song when someone dies and they always play some epic, haunting song when someone dies).
Sometimes when something’s particularly funny, I just skip the laughing stage and go straight to tears.