Many a one cannot deliver himself from his own chains and yet he is his friend’s deliverer.

—Of The Friend, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

What is it about ones own problems that can be so difficult to overcome? What blinds someone so much that they can’t help themselves? Why is it only our friends that can bring us out of the worst situations?

I’ve come to realize that I fucking HATE crying in front of almost anyone. Pat, Aaron, John are the only people I’m comfortable crying in front of. I’m comfortable around them enough that I don’t have to worry about boring them, or feeling weak, or thinking that my problems are petty. All they care about is the state-of-mind of a friend in distress, and nothing else. I can relax, be myself, concentrate on my problems, instead of fretting over how worried I might be making them, something I find extremely difficult to do.

I remember once, Trolley was having coding problems at work that was causing him to stay late and go in on weekends. I explained the situation to Aaron, and we both agreed that we wanted to show up at his work and help him out. Unforutantely, it was eventually decided that we would hinder more than help, due to our inexperience with the software, and the fact that learning the necessary code would take longer than the time we could save.

Even though Aaron and I could do nothing to help, I remember feeling good about the zeal with which we sought solutions. Not only taking great pleasure in the fact that I could do something to help a friend out, but the fact that it came so easily. That my first reaction was to drop everything, and sharing the exact same sentiment with Aaron.

Knowing I have friends who are willing to do the same for me is what makes me stoic. Knowing that I have people I can relax around when I’m crying, sobbing, at my most vulnerable, is what keeps me sane. Knowing that I have people who would put me before themselves when necessary, while not having to worry about them at the same time, is what makes me stronger. Knowing that I have people I can trust enough to depend on, is what gives me courage. Knowing that I have people to fall back on is what keeps me from falling in the first place.

And perhaps this is why I couldn’t do this alone.

I’ve gained a certain notoriety amongst some as being a crier, but today was the first time that I actually had a breakdown. The first time there wasn’t just a single thing that brought me to tears, but several, which, by themselves, would have been tolerable. And even though I’ve long known and been an advocate of the practical aspects of lachrymology, today was the first time that I still felt like shit when I couldn’t cry any more.

This song in my head is telling me about how the stars keep shining down, the world keeps turning ’round, not to let these hardships bring me down because times like these will come around. I believe him, because I’ve been there. I’ve been to the point where I wished my interest in suicide was just a cry for attention, and I’ve been to the point where it felt like nothing could bring me down.

All I know right now is that I’m going to get through this week, but it’s not going to be easy.

I could never understand why some songs could make my eyes water.

• Radiohead — Paranoid Android, with its contradictory chords
• Thrice — Artist in the Ambulance, with its repenting, inspirational movements
• Dreamtheater — Disappear, as the harp leads to distortion in a bittersweet explosion
• Billy Talent — Nothing to Lose, with its heartwrenching chorus
• Godspeed, You Black Emperor! — Hungover as the Queen in Maida Vale, right when a single violin interrupts the sermon
• No Motiv — Born Again, when the drums kick in heavy and lead the listener to the present
• Lovage — Anger Management, with its pining soft rock melody
• The Dears — Heartless Romantic, with its thumping, distorted bass hits against the droning organ synth and dual vocals
• Elliot Smith — Waltz #2, with its steady, but heart-breaking tone
• Bad Astronaut — These Days, every time the effusive chorus rushes in
• Strung Out — Match Book, in its entire energetic hopefulness
• Postal Service — The Dream Of Evan And Chan, through all the opening lines
• Misfits — Saturday Night, as soon as the dragging guitars kick in
• Portishead — Undenied, with Beths fragile voice accompanying a simple, distorted loop

For the longest time I had assumed that it was the songs themselves, composed so well with so much pain, that would blur my vision. These songs were sad, and tears were the proper response.

Then I heard something a little different, something that was calming yet lifting. A dreamy song by Modest Mouse called Float On, that filled me with an indescribable satisfaction every time I heard it. And I realized that all these songs, as sad as they are, were making me happy.

So happy that tears are the proper response.

Even with John’s forewarning, I cried during The Last Samurai, ending my three year no-crying-during-movie streak. The last time was when I was watching Message in a Bottle on a bus ride home, when Paul Newman starts the father-son talk with Costner. I’m not really sure if this just means that I haven’t seen movies which were good enough to affect me like this, or whether I’m just less numb now.

What is it about crying that makes one so tired? Is there a chemical release which leaves one feeling weary in an attempt to quickly recover from the shaking and the spasms? Why do ones eyes become as heavy as lead in the fight against unconsciousness?