I’d love to be able to cry more easily. I’ve enjoyed the swelling relief from deep inside my soul that came from a good cry, and I’ve often wondered why I am unable to cry when I feel the need.

Some might argue that I’m the product of toxic masculinity. Brought up learning that older men do not cry.

Not true.

My dad showed me Brian’s Song as a boy. Watching a locker-room full of strong men break down in tears at the news that their teammate has cancer is all a young boy needs to normalize crying in a world full of unfairness.

Maybe I find it tough to cry because I rarely saw my father cry? That is less an observation on society and more a testament to how well he can laugh at life. He can find the joke in anything, a skill I developed by watching him, though with a considerably darker shade.

Still, I am jealous of people who can produce tears when their emotions get beyond their ability to handle them, which is why I was taken by surprise when I woke up crying in a float tank last night.

This was my second time at Flo2s in Atlanta. I had a two-hour float scheduled following my day treatment therapy sessions. It had been a few months since I last floated, and I was excited for what has usually been a relaxing and rejuvenating experience. After settling into the water I turned off the lights, and enjoyed the sensation of not having any sensations. It’s not numbness, but an experience of the negative of existing. Like looking at the negative of a photograph. You get to sense what is in the background of everything around you.

After a few minutes my body acclimated to the water temperature, and I could no longer tell where my body ended and the water began. Then several flashes of light burst across my eyes, which was strange because I was in a completely dark tank. My brain was working overtime trying to process not having anything to process; it kept coming up with optical inputs that felt like a personal fireworks show. It’s impossible to judge time well in a float tank, so I’ll guess generously and say I fell asleep after a half hour. I woke up into full-body convulsions and wracking sobs.

What was I sad about? No idea. All I’ve been able to piece together is that my body and mind had something to process that existed below the level of my consciousness. What is weird about crying in a floatation tank is that your body gets buffeted by the water. The more violently I shook, the more of a rocking sensation that I felt. That rocking was immensely soothing, and before long I was calm and the water returned to stillness.

Looking back, I think I experienced what it must be like to be a fetus, and my mind was so comforted by the feelings of warmth, safety, and gentle rocking that I was calmed down almost instantly. Today, I feel lighter. As if someone had replaced the heavy weight I was carrying with a more manageable one. I am still not sure what it is that my subconscious is processing, and I know that whatever it is will come up in its own time.