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Some people love ultra-dramatic Lifetime movies, or heartfelt Disney flicks. A little piece of me has always taken pride in not being that person. In being the girl who has zero interest in anything from Pixar or Dreamworks; in being annoyed by click flicks and tear jerkers.
The crazy thing is, the older I get, the more I realize I saw liking those kinds of books and movies as a weakness because it seemed to underscore me. As a kid, I was always overly sentimental. I’d get my feelings hurt and take things personally way too easily, so I adopted a standoffishness. A sense of aloofness. (Exhibit A: My tendency to slip away, instead of facing someone and saying goodbye, something I’m working on since my aunt passed away.) If I never got too close, I couldn’t get hurt. Or so I told myself.
About once a year, though, I feel a weird urge to succumb to those types of mushy, wear-your-feelings-on-your-sleeve works. I need something unabashedly tear-inducing; I want to read the novel or watch the movie, no matter how cringe-worthy it seems in its earnest, bare-all attitude.
I can almost tick them off, as if on a list: Safe Haven, The Fault in Our Stars, Me Before You. It wasn’t until this last movie that I truly noticed the trend, which made me wonder why I seemed to want an annual sobfest, and — since these books and movies often become hits — why other people crave the same thing.
Theories abound, and they make sense: First, watching these lovey-dovey tragedies causes you to compare your life to theirs, reminding you that things could be much worse than they are (ah, the power of perspective). Second, according to Greatist, your brain releases oxytocin, that feel-good chemical, when you feel empathy toward others. The ability to relate to others helps us feel more connected to humanity as a whole, which hits on that whole inner craving for fulfillment; to be a part of something bigger than ourselves.
The third answer — the one that addresses my reticence to even be associated with these books and movies — is one I didn’t come to until I started typing this post. I avoid them, because they make me vulnerable. They represent the mushy, sentimental, vulnerable side of myself. The one who cries easily, who feels fully, who isn’t afraid to get emotional over the things that matter. All too often I try to stifle that person, since strong emotions can often be seen as weakness. Taking part in them forces me to confront that sentimental side, but this time, I don’t see it as a weakness. It helps me make sense of what’s going on in my life, gain new perspective, and better connect with others. If that makes me mushy or basic, I don’t care.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more pages left of Me Before You before I sniffle my way through it in theaters.
Top photo: Me Before You
