About the Time I Took a ‘Mental Health Day’ and Cried in Four Languages
You ever wake up and instantly know that you will not, under any circumstances, be participating in capitalism today?
That was me last Tuesday. My alarm went off, my brain whispered, “Cancel everything,” and my body said, “Bet.”
Now, when people say they’re taking a “mental health day,” I imagine them padding around their home in cozy socks, sipping matcha, lighting candles that smell like “Rain on a Swedish Fjord,” and maybe doing yoga with a YouTube instructor named Willow.
Me? I took a mental health day and cried for nine straight hours like a woman in a telenovela who just found out her husband is also her long-lost cousin.
But here’s the plot twist: I cried in four languages.
English: This was my base language for the day. Solid, dependable, the beige cardigan of emotional expression. It carried me through classics like “What is my life even?”, “I am a swamp monster now,” and “If I die today, please delete my search history.”
Spanish: This hit harder. It’s the language of my childhood, so my tears came with more chest-heaving and dramatic pauses. I was tossing out “¡Esto es una mierda!” like a woman auditioning for a Univision soap opera.
French: Ah, le despair chic. This one made my crying instantly feel like performance art. I’d whisper “Mais pourquoi?” and picture myself in a Parisian café, eyeliner perfectly smudged, a single tear rolling down as Edith Piaf played in the background.
Italian: The grand finale. Full volume. Hands everywhere. My sobs were practically arias. I’m pretty sure I invented a new pasta shape with my hand gestures alone. Even my cat looked at me like, “You need to get it together, signora.”
By 4 PM, my eyes looked like I had gone ten rounds with a very determined bee, and my nose could have qualified as a traffic hazard. But strangely… I felt better.
See, we’ve been sold this lie that self-care always has to look pretty — pastel bullet journals, green juice, a bath bomb that costs more than dinner. But sometimes, it’s just letting yourself be an absolute, unhinged mess for a day.
Sometimes, “productivity” is switching from English to Italian mid-breakdown and giving it your full soprano.
And here’s the thing: I did take care of myself. I hydrated (with my own tears, but still). I released emotions I’d been hoarding like a dragon with shiny grievances. And I gave my neighbors a free multilingual performance that I hope they’ll never forget.
So yes, I cried in four languages. And no, I didn’t accomplish anything on paper. But sometimes the most responsible thing you can do for your mental health is absolutely nothing — except feel everything.
And if I can do all that while sobbing in French, baby, I am thriving.
