Crocodile Tears

They said I felt too much so it couldn’t be real. Tears streaming down my face as I tried to explain why I was crying through sobs you didn’t believe in, wiping away tears you said were somehow fake. Which is funny because I couldn’t control it if I tried.

They say crocodiles weep while they devour their prey. Crocodile tears are fake sorrow, performative emotions meant to manipulate. So you thought a child was using uncontrollable crying, unable to catch her breath, whole body shaking with frustration as she tried so hard to make you understand, as a way to get what exactly? It certainly didn’t garner your sympathy.

What possible justification could a child have to pretend to cry when she knows you won’t hold her? Won’t believe her, won’t respond in a normal caring manner. Won’t listen to her words, won’t wipe her tears away, won’t tell her it’s ok. She knows you will make fun of her, call her names, tell the whole family and get them all to laugh at her. So why would she bother to lie?

Huge tears running down her face. Shoulders shaking. Breath ragged. Repeating herself in the hopes that if she says it a different way maybe someone will hear her. Maybe someone will understand. But she is caught in the jaws of your rejection as you deathroll her heart in this kitchen today. She can’t stop wanting your love.

It’s like hugging fur coats in a dark closet. If that reptile ever had the capacity for love it was before they turned it into a handbag. Everyone agreed. She feels too much, it can’t be real. Just ignore her. She will stop crying eventually. Lawrence Welk is on and the cookies are ready for the coffee we made. Leave her there. Crying. On the floor. Up against the cabinets. Curled up in a ball. Hugging herself as the tracks of her tears dry and she sniffs to herself. Alone.

At least it’s quiet. And there is no one there to point and laugh. No one to agree with them. Just another example of how a whole house full of people can be wrong. They think they won, they have the majority, and that makes them right. One small child knowing the truth. Sitting with it as the sounds from the living room move on without her. Knowing she is the only one who can see what’s real in this house of fake smiles and braggadocio.

The tears were the only real thing for miles. No one knows but me and the crocodiles. They don’t weep while they eat. Their eyes water from being out of their element. They are exposed. Vulnerable. Trying to clear away what keeps them from seeing well enough to protect themselves. Biding their time until they can return to the murky depths. They don’t belong in the shallow waters. Drawn there by some promise of care, some memory of nourishment, a need to connect that transcends the alarms going off in all directions.

The crocodile knows it’s not safe. It rises to the surface anyway, pokes its eyes out, raises its head. And takes the abuse. Maybe this time they will see me. Maybe this time it will be different. They won’t form a mob. Drive me away. Maybe this time I will find love.

It stands to reason none of my feelings are real then, doesn’t it? Every smile, each tender feeling of affection, the very breath that bears it forth is called into question. Maybe none of it is real although it feels real to me. I feel all of it, glad, sad, happy, mad. All of them are equals and genuine article right on to me. I don’t see some of them and ignore the others. I don’t just welcome in what’s convenient or desired. No I am all of them, each one in turn, the very marrow of the bones of the feelings is as real as life, as real as breathing, as real as it gets.

There is nothing more real than the tears of a little girl you’ve crushed. You didn’t like her confidence, it bothered you how she walked around acting like she owned the place, how dare she act like she belongs somewhere. She’s the most real thing you’ve ever seen and it’s terrifying. You have to break it, make it smaller, take away what it loves the most and keep it down. That’s what they did to you. Isn’t it. That’s what they did to you and now you’re doing it to anyone smaller and weaker and it makes you feel powerful and good. You’re the monster. The tears are for you. For your soul. Your humanity. She cries for you on that kitchen floor where you left her.

Until you kneel down and put your arms around her and say you’re sorry. Until you believe every tear. Understand all her frustrations. Hear her and see her and wipe away her very real and justified tears. Tell her you are sorry. Hold her. Hold her tiny frame until it stops shaking. Be there for her even if you don’t understand why. Be there. Hold her. Stick up for her. Take the time to find out what is wrong and hear her when she tells you. Even if what’s wrong is you, especially then.

Believe her. The feelings are real. The fears and the tears and the collapse and the wailing are a very real expression of how she feels. Find out why. Listen to her. Help to fix what’s wrong and if you can’t fix it then at least know it as truth. Don’t turn away. Embrace it. Hold it with her. Help her to carry this weight, she’s just a little girl. Let her know she’s not alone. Hold her hand. Hold her.

Let her tears be a blessing. Honor her sorrow. Embrace all of it. Wrap it up tightly in your arms and never let it go. Squeeze all the hurt out and replace it with love. Accept her as she is and tell her you understand. Even if you don’t. You have to want to, you have to try.