Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

And That’s When You Go Cry in Your Closet

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Dec• 09•18

Is he crying or hitting the Mariah Carey high note, who knows?

So, during one of my recent daily appointments with my team of shrinks, one of them had some pretty interesting feedback for me. Of course, I don’t just take any random person’s opinion at face value—even if I’m paying them for it and they just so happen to have multiple degrees on the subject matter. Instead, I did what any normal person would do, I made my team of shrinks take a vote on it. When I didn’t like the outcome, I demanded a recount, and rightfully so.

Apparently, my shrinks seem to think that I hold stuff inside and they suggested I stop burying my feelings. I thought this was a bit odd. I mean, I have a whole blog and all. Isn’t that the very definition of sharing? As a matter of fact, some would say I overshare. I remember that post where I wrote about my experiencing menopause at age 25, which was tough for me to admit because I’m kind of a guy. After I politely asked my shrinks to mind their business, they told me I needed to work on accepting feedback, so I fired them—all of them.

Fortunately, I keep a few backup shrinks on standby just for these types of moments. When my favorite backup shrink agreed with my former shrinks, I began to think that maybe their opinion had some merit. I decided to give being more open a try. I started by telling my shrink that she was my best friend in the whole world and I gave her a big hug. That’s when she broke up with me and had me escorted out of the building. She said something about the nature of our relationship being inappropriate. See, that’s exactly what happens when you share your feelings with people.

Anyway, the feedback to share more led me to call my dad the other day. I had something on my heart that I really wanted to get out. When he answered, I asked him if he was sitting down and if now was a good time to talk. Because he knew this was a serious matter that would require his full attention, he took a shot of tequila, a shot of vodka, and then had a rum chaser. When he was ready, I took a deep breath and began to let it all out.

I put all my cards on the table. As warm tears rolled down my cheeks, I asked my dad what he had against dogs wearing Christmas sweaters. For the life of me, I don’t have any childhood memories of our furry dog friends having cute outfits. I told him it was his fault and it was still bothering me as an adult. Perhaps I would have more confidence in myself if only I had seen our dogs strutting around in winter jackets and matching mittens.

At that point, my dad said something about barely having the money to put food on the table and to keep the lights on. I knew he would go there, so I was prepared. I told him that was not the point, and that his not having money shouldn’t be his answer for everything. He got a tad bit upset, but I had been advised by people with degrees to share more, and so I did. Twenty minutes later, he was still yelling and using terms like “ungrateful” and “I wished I never had a son.” My dad can be really dramatic at times. He should probably see someone about that.

Now that I think about it, maybe my request for all the dogs to have Christmas sweaters was a bit unreasonable. Although it may have been fine for us to dress up the smaller dogs in cocktail dresses for special occasions, I couldn’t imagine trying to put a black mini dress on a Rottweiler. And what if the dog didn’t like Christmas? Would it be fair to dress up our German Shepherd like Santa if celebrating the holiday is against its religion? I certainly don’t think so.

Once my dad calmed down a bit and offered to put me back into his will, I told him not to worry about it. Sure, we were the only family on the block who didn’t buy their dogs pink ankle boots, but maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. After all, if the dogs had a problem with their lack of clothing and accessories, it was on them to communicate that.

Speaking of letting things out, there is something about the combination of the wind and cold that happens this time of year that bothers my eyes. For some reason, a cold breeze makes me tear up faster than a romantic comedy where everyone dies at the end. Before my shrink broke up with me, I had asked her to take a look to see if she could find out what was going on. She explained to me that eye care was not her expertise. I ignored it, told her she was a doctor, and asked her to get her stethoscope.

Because my shrink couldn’t solve my problem, my eyes have been leaking all over the city. I’ve leaked on the Metro. I’ve leaked at Starbucks. I leaked while trying to have a conversation with a homeless guy on the street. As I repeatedly dabbed at my eyes, he asked if I was crying. I told him it was just the wind, to which he replied, “That’s what they all say.” I laughed and leaked a little more right there on the curb.

At that point, the homeless guy told me it was ok to cry. I thanked him for the support and said I was going to go leak in the privacy of my office. He then told me that I didn’t have to cry alone. He patted his shoulder and said, “You can cry right here, buddy.” Three hours later, his jacket was completely soaked, but I felt so much better. Who knew that crying on a stranger’s shoulder could feel so good! I recommend you find the nearest stranger and leak all over them for as long as you need to.

And the Oscar should really go to Michael here! Look at all that fake emotion! Yes.

The good thing about my bonding with the homeless guy was that it came at a time when I really needed it. I mean, since my shrink broke up with me, I was looking for someone to fill that gap. Since I had already leaked all over him, who better to deal with my mental health matters than the homeless guy? I should probably learn his name, and I have to figure out if he accepts my insurance, but so far, he’s doing great. While I sit there pouring my heart out, we both collect change from passersby, which is an extra bonus that my original shrinks didn’t offer.

I write all of this to say that you don’t have to be afraid to let it out. If you want to cry in the middle of Target, go right ahead. If you want to leak all over your Quarter Pounder in the middle of McDonald’s, feel free. And if you want to lay your head on a homeless guy’s chest, more power to you. Hey, you never know where it could lead: a new friend, a new therapist, maybe a new baby daddy. The options are truly limitless.

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.humormike.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

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