It’s a nickname nobody wants to be branded with.
It’s a derogatory jab usually reserved for little girls and boys.
It’s a word that has defined me since childhood.
Ever since I was a baby, my mother told me, I would burst into tears any and every time somebody came within a few feet of me. The only exception was my mother and occasionally my father, but nobody else, my relatives, family friends, whoever, was spared. I would know who was holding me, and if it wasn’t my mother or father, the waterworks opened in a flash.
Fast forward to about three or four years of age. You would think my little crying problem would subside, right? Wrong, oh how wrong you are. If there were kids on the playground, I would dig my heels in the dirt and refuse to go any closer. It wasn’t that I thought they were all scrubby little annoyances that wouldn’t stop yapping, it was that I was scared. If anybody came up to talk to me, I would start crying because I was just so shy. Preschool was a bit better… I made a couple of friends and mostly just stayed quiet around them and was thankful that I was finally socializing. The tears came less, then, but that may be because I only have fleeting memories of my preschool years and might not remember all the times I teared up in front of my peers.
Ah, elementary school. It was quite enjoyable, actually, with great teachers and nice classmates. Those were the good old days, when I was top of the class… Haha. I don’t recall crying too much in elementary school, I even came out of my shell a little bit. The teachers were always quick to console, and nobody really focused on anything but playing on the playground and getting to the lunch line first. Maybe I was finally growing out of my bad habit?
Maaaaaybe not.
Middle school. Not the worst time not the best time. It was in middle school that I found myself crying easily again. It was in middle school that I realized, in elementary school, I was like any other kid. Easy going, carefree, with not a thought spared to anything but food and play. But middle school made me revert back to my preschool ways, and I became quiet and shy once more. I almost never raised my hand in class, never participated happily in field day, got nervous when we were to work in groups because I feared nobody would choose me and the teacher would have to make me stand awkwardly in front of the class while she put me with a group. That group would then proceed to give me disgruntled looks the entire rest of the class period because they evidently did not want me there, like all the other groups in class.
Look, I didn’t want to be in your group either. F*ck off!
I distinctly remember one instance in middle school, with parent teacher conferences. Thank god high school doesn’t require the student to come along, but we’ll get to high school later. This one instance in middle school, my mom and I were sitting down with my science teacher, eighth grade. This science teacher of mine, like just about any teacher I’ve had in middle school, was quick to point out how I was “just a little bit too quiet, could she raise her hand more in class?” My teacher then looks at me and says, “Come on, there’s no need to be so shy all the time!” And at that moment, I felt tears coming on again. I hated being called shy. I still dislike it today. Shy was a bad word, a word I did not want to associate myself with. By middle school I had gotten decently good at forcing my tears back, so that instead of openly crying I would just end up with red, wet eyes.
Well, my teacher noticed, and I don’t know if she knew I was trying not to cry, or if she was just a bit clueless, because she then proceeded to ask me, “Do you have allergies?”
I WISH.
Well. I actually do have allergies but clearly that is beside the point.
When my science teacher left, my mom, being my mom, turned to me and immediately asked me why I had been about to cry. I shrugged it off then, like I shrug it off today. Nobody likes to admit why or that they’re quick to cry. And when you felt tears coming on because your teacher spoke just a bit too bluntly towards you and your fragile middle school heart couldn’t take it, you’re even more hesitant to admit why you started crying.
High school. I like high school. Much better than middle school. I’ve improved since middle school- Nowadays, select people even think of me as blunt or harsh when I speak to them, because I can be quite straightforward in my speech. However, I’ve also found that I’ve cried more in high school than before. The teachers aren’t necessarily mean, but they speak more forcefully and with more conviction. They expect high schoolers to not be crybabies anymore, because who the hell still cries easily in high school?
ME.
I. CAN’T. HELP. IT.
If I receive ANY sort of criticism I cry. If I get flustered, I cry. If I get jealous, I cry. I can’t speak my mind because I’ll start crying. I can’t confront people because I’ll start crying before I can get a single word out. If somebody asks me what’s wrong, or why I look like I’m “about to cry”, I… cry harder.
It’s quite debilitating, if you haven’t figured that out yet.
… Please don’t make me cry.
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