How on earth....

One thing that's mystified me for many many years is how someone is able to kill another person - or even thousands of people - without any regret or remorse or guilt or shame or any of the normal emotions that would prevent most of us from doing something so appalling.

They might even brag about what they're doing as if it's something to be proud of - like Nicholas Prosper, who wanted to commit the biggest school massacre ever (and luckily was stopped in his tracks).

They just don't see their victims as human beings but as worthless objects to be "dealt with" in the name of some sort of personal grudge or grievance or festering hostility. Something has obviously gone horribly wrong in their upbringing.

I couldn't possibly injure another person, let alone kill them. I couldn't possibly do something with such horrendous consequences both for me and for the other person - no to mention for their family and friends. How could I possibly justify my action? Likewise I couldn't bring myself to commit suicide.

As for those individuals who're happy to start wars and kill thousands or even millions of people - I can't imagine how they manage to sleep at night, how they're able to continue with their duties as if nothing unusual is happening.

It just stupefies me. The mental state of someone who can do such things is so far removed from my own mental state that the gap is unbridgeable. I can't even begin to understand what's going through their mind. Can anyone?

One thing it makes very clear - you can never know what's going on in someone else's head. Maybe something wonderful. Or maybe something utterly hideous.

All emotional

It's the norm these days that we should all express our emotions as much as possible, and if you tend to keep your emotions to yourself that's not healthy.

Well, I'm one of those emotionally cautious types, trying not to express my feelings publicly unless they're positive and helpful rather than damaging.

Many emotions are harmful (jealousy, contempt, hatred, resentment, to name a few), yet people casually fling them around as if they're harmless.

One result is the ferocious hatred directed at celebrities on social media, and the bitter conflicts over things like transgender, immigration and diversity.

It's a cliché that therapists tend to ask "how do you feel about that?", as if feelings are the key to very problem. But that isn't the case. Often it's the way you look at a situation that's the key and not feelings.

Expressing your jealousy or resentment that someone else is doing better than you are at something won't help the situation, but working out why that person is doing better and following their example would be a lot more productive.

I missed out on the jealousy gene altogether and I've never felt jealous about anyone. It makes more sense to focus on my own life and how it's going.

There are plenty of emotions swilling about inside me, I just prefer to express them prudently rather than freely.

Over emotional

One of the things that makes modern life difficult is that so many people no longer simply express their emotions, they have to act them out in as many ways as possible. They have to "perform" their emotions.

They don't just get angry, they shout, they're abusive, they throw things, they issue threats, they attack people. They aren't just happy, they jump up and down with excitement, they tell everyone how ecstatic they are, they expect everyone to gush and enthuse.

This is what I would call over-emotional. Meaning not that you express too many emotions, or that you have an emotional reaction to just about everything, but that you act out your emotions instead of keeping them to yourself.

It must be terribly exhausting for those concerned. Isn't it enough to say you're angry and what you're angry about? Why go to such lengths to "prove" your emotions?

And yes, you've guessed it, I tend not to go that far. I usually express my emotions quite simply, without any fireworks - which rather disconcerts those who are more emotionally effusive.

So I'm rather bemused when someone on the telly is waxing euphoric about the meal they've just cooked, or the valuable antique they found in a junk shop, or their newly updated bathroom. You'd think they'd just won a fortune in the lottery (now that might well merit waxing euphoric).

People who make a meal of their emotions used to be unusual. They used to be dismissed as drama queens. Nowadays drama queens are two a penny and it's the emotionally reserved who're the oddballs.

Messy emotions

There are regular articles in the media about why men are so bad at making intimate, emotional friendships, instead keeping other men at a distance with banter, impersonal topics like politics and football, treating compliments like a joke, and evasive side-stepping ("So how's it all going?" "Fine")

All sorts of fancy theories are floated, like "toxic masculinity", gender roles, being too self-contained, and not doing enough to strengthen friendships.

Is it really that complicated? I think it's all very simple. A lot of men are afraid of emotions and afraid of intimacy. They think that if they show their emotions or anything too personal, there could be awful consequences.

And mostly that fear develops in childhood, when you realise that your father is afraid of expressing his emotions. And it develops because boys tease any boy who isn't masculine enough and looks a bit too "effeminate". And it develops because of the idea that men should always be tough and strong and resilient and shouldn't show any sign of weakness.

I've tried quite a few times to befriend other men, but invariably it fails because we can never get beyond a certain psychological barrier that keeps any deeper feelings or revelations from exposure.

I think men are more sensitive to their public image than women. They see themselves as phlegmatic, practical, matter-of-fact, and emotions are seen as something unpredictable and messy that undermines that gritty self-image. I know, idiotic isn't it?

Emotions are an important part of anyone's personality. Trying to keep them hidden is not only hard work but is a losing battle. Sooner or later those emotions will slip out.

Should I vent?

There's a general assumption that it's healthier to vent your emotions as much as possible, and that suppressing them is bad for you. You shouldn't "bottle it all up" or "keep things to yourself", you should let it all out - no matter how startling or awkward it might be to others.

But is such openness as healthy as it's said to be? Is it really a good idea to be seething with rage or collapsing in tears or voicing jealousy and hatred? Does that actually make you happier or calmer or better at coping with life?

Of course I would ask that, wouldn't I, as someone who tends to be emotionally restrained and not publicly displaying my feelings for all to see. But I'm not convinced laying it all on the line would be helpful.

I once had a workmate called Helen who was permanently angry. Just about anything would set her off, and all day she'd be raging about one thing or another. I couldn't see that being at constant boiling point did her any good. She just looked perpetually frazzled and worn down.

I had another workmate called Pat who felt forever cheated and swindled, complaining ceaselessly about all the awful things that had happened to her, all the ways she'd been mistreated and taken advantage of. It may have been largely true, but even if the rest of us were sympathetic, it was exhausting listening to this depressing litany all day. And it clearly didn't help her to be so habitually overwrought.

Am I somehow depleted by being only sparingly emotional? Would it do me good to give my emotions free rein? Would I enjoy spluttering with anger or seething with jealousy? Somehow I doubt it. I'm quite happy the way I am.

Not guilty

I never feel guilty. It's one of those "normal" emotions we're all supposed to feel from time to time, cringing in embarrass-ment because of something we did or didn't do. But I don't even know what it feels like. Are there others like me or am I some sort of weirdo?

When I was growing up, other people were always saying they felt guilty about this or that. So I assumed guilt was something I would mature into, something that would suddenly sprout one day. Except that it didn't.

I'm glad I don't feel guilty about anything, because it's a very destructive emotion. It means you brood and fixate over something rather than just recognising your mistake and putting it right. It eats away at your self-confidence and buoyancy.

It must be dreadful if you're someone who feels guilty about every five minutes. Like Devorah Baum:

"I feel guilty about everything. Already today I've felt guilty about having said the wrong thing to a friend. Then I felt guilty about avoiding that friend because of the wrong thing I said. Plus, I haven't called my mother yet today: guilty. And I really should have organised something special for my husband's birthday: guilty. I gave the wrong kind of food to my child: guilty. I've been cutting corners at work lately: guilty. I skipped breakfast: guilty. I snacked instead: double guilty. I'm taking up all this space in a world with not enough space in it: guilty, guilty, guilty."

How could you get through the day without collapsing in a paralytic heap?

I don't need to feel guilty (so I don't feel guilty about not feeling guilty). I'm sensitive enough and aware enough to know if I've screwed up, if I've been rude to someone, or said something I shouldn't. I don't need guilt to tell me I should do whatever is needed to smooth things over.

The guilt gene clearly passed me by.

Cool cookie?

Am I a cold fish or a cool cookie? I ask myself this a lot and usually decide I'm a cool cookie. The reason I ask this question is because I'm aware that while other people are constantly overcome with rage or jealousy or hostility or 101 other reactions, I seldom get as emotional and I wonder why they're so worked up.

I do get emotional, just not so frequently or so intensely. I can feel sad, or annoyed, or disappointed, or rejected, like anyone else. But I don't get in a boiling rage because the bus is five minutes late. I don't burn with hatred against someone who jumped the queue. I don't burst into tears because I broke my favourite mug.

There are lots of things I enjoy, but I don't jump up and down with excitement or hug everyone in sight or scream with delight.

But I wonder if such low-key emotion means I'm a cold fish - that I'm somehow a bit cut off from what's going on around me and don't have the normal responses other people have.

Or does it just mean I'm more philosophical, more phlegmatic, more able to take things in my stride and not get too thrown by everyday setbacks and accidents?

Naturally I go for the latter. Who wants to be known as a cold fish?

A real cold fish is surely very different - someone who shows no visible distress or horror or fragility even after something devastating like their house burning down or a terrible car crash or a dreadful medical diagnosis.

But I wonder if the more emotional types are living their lives more fully than I am, experiencing things more deeply and more vividly. Are they living at full throttle while I'm stuck in low gear?

It's a dilemma that no doubt I'll carry to my grave.

Namby pamby

One thing I thank my parents for is that they never expected me to conform to a gender role but just let me be what came naturally. They never expected me to like or do certain things because I was a boy rather than a girl.

They never expected me to like sport, or stamp collecting, or climbing trees, or films with tough male heroes. I did have a model railway and a Bayko building set (sort of like Lego), but that was my preference and nothing to do with them. I used to play keeping house with my sister and I used to play with her dolls and her cuddly toys.

Likewise my parents didn't expect me to be muscle-bound or physically tough. They didn't expect me to be impassive or unemotional. And they didn't expect me to hide my vulnerability or insecurity. They were very non-coercive in that respect.

Boarding school however was a different matter. There was a strongly masculine atmosphere. You shouldn't be emotional, you shouldn't show your vulnerability, you had to be competitive and forceful and loud, you had to be a sports-lover, and if you were bullied or pushed around, you just had to suck it up. Any hint of anything feminine or "namby-pamby" was firmly squashed.

Fortunately not much of this macho outlook rubbed off, partly because it just wasn't me, partly because of the more easy-going attitude at home, partly because it struck me as immature and repressive. How I endured it for so long (five years) without rebelling or running away, I don't know. I must have been a very stoical child.

Some people say boarding schools have changed and they're much more enlightened nowadays. Somehow I doubt it. In a boys-only community without any girls to challenge them, a masculine ethos must inevitably take over and permeate everything.

They sure as hell won't be admiring each other's new frocks.

Pic: Schoolboys who weren't allowed to wear shorts came to school in skirts.

False impressions

I seem to have given you lot the impression that I'm a perma-nently miserable old sod, awash with neuroses and hang-ups of every possible kind, and that feelings of happiness and enjoyment are quite beyond me.

This is a total travesty of the truth - as Jenny could easily tell you - and needs to be rapidly corrected. The fact is that I'm often happy and relaxed and probably no more neurotic than anyone else. I just happen to have written about my neuroses so often they've unfairly taken centre stage and the rest of my emotional life is left hovering in the wings waiting desperately to speak its lines.

I think the problem is that fears and anxieties and phobias and all the rest are a lot easier to write about than happiness and enjoyment. What can I say about happiness except that I'm happy or not? Euphoric or not? Delighted or not? There's nothing more to say, is there?

I suppose in some cases I could be specific and say, ah yes, I'm happy because I landed that job or booked that holiday or caught up with that long-lost friend. But mostly I feel happy for no obvious reason (as one does). Suddenly I'm over the moon, and I really couldn't tell you why. There could be chaos all around me,there could be a dozen crises on the horizon, but I'm unaccountably and bizarrely happy. How do I explain that? I can't.

So you'll just have to take my word for it that I'm happy as often as I'm neurotic, even if I don't mention it. I may be whooping with joy or leaping with excitement, but how would you know? Only if I install a webcam. But that might reveal a few ugly truths along with the bursts of happiness, so I think I'll pass on that one.

Neurotic or happy? Tell you what, I'm a multi-tasker. I can do both.

Fizzing furiously

Do we really live life more intensely when we're young? Is it really true that as children we feel everything more passion-ately, more vividly, but as we get older we're more phlegmatic, shrugging off with a brief flicker of interest things that once got us so aroused?

Of course it isn't. Oldies feel things just as acutely. We may not go rushing off to protest rallies or dance the night away (though some of us still do), but we're just as emotional and passionate as we ever were. Things can still stab us in the heart or knock us for six.

You only have to listen to a few oldies exclaiming about some pet grievance or some cherished political opinion to realise that they're not exactly burnt-out old cynics happy to let life drift past them with an indifferent "So what?"

I constantly amaze myself with my continuing passions about life's vicissitudes. In fact it's because I've lived so long, and know how little has been done to resolve problems I've been aware of since I was a small child, that I get so angry and forthright about the need to fix them. Often angrier than when I was young and thought these injustices would soon be put right.

And it's because I've lived so long, and can recall a more enlightened time of full employment, better working conditions, generous welfare benefits and cheaper housing, that I'm utterly distressed at the way we're hurtling back to a Victorian era of struggle and deprivation, and I'm incandescent with disbelief and outrage. How could anyone of any age not be passionate about this wilful political vandalism?

No, my emotions certainly haven't dried up with advancing years. On the contrary, they're fizzing as furiously as they were in my naive, pubescent self.

A step back

People are fond of saying that in a crisis you should "follow your instincts" or "do what feels right". I've long been a bit wary of that advice, as instincts can be as disastrous as they can be spot-on.

My habit has always been to reflect on what I'm about to say or do before I leap into it. Which makes me a slightly reticent and cautious person, but I'd rather that than make some colossal blunder simply because I didn't think first.

You only have to look at the torrents of abuse and spite unleashed on the internet to see that "following your instincts" can sometimes be pretty destructive, especially if your instincts are tangled up with heated emotions and it's actually the emotions that are holding sway.

I think instincts can be helpful in some situations but calamitous in others. Parents getting conflicting advice on how to bring up their children usually fall back on instinct, and since that instinct is guided by love and affection for their child, the result is usually positive.

But relying on instinct in fraught public arguments, where delicate sensitivities are at stake and it's all too easy to fan the flames and make everything worse, is a mug's game. So much tragedy and distress could be averted if those involved first took a step back and thought about the effects of their actions.

Following your instincts is not much help if it means bingeing on junk food or having 19 children or squeezing into your budgie smugglers. A pause for reflection might have led to a happier outcome.

Instead of "follow your instincts", how about "follow your thoughts" or "chew it over"? Or how about another old phrase "Look before you leap"?

Unless you're a bemused parent, that is.

A tight rein

I'm not controlling with other people. I'm happy to let them be just what they want to be. That way they're a lot more interesting. Unexpected quirks and foibles come to the surface.

But I'm very controlling with myself. I tend to keep a tight rein on whatever I'm saying or doing so as to give the right impression, the right image, the right idea.

I have a certain picture of myself which is positive and attractive. I see myself as open-minded, considerate, sensitive, intelligent, amusing. I don't want to reveal anything that spoils that picture, that makes me look nasty or callous or stupid.

(At the same time though, I have this huge urge to show myself exactly as I am, warts and all, to display the whole me and not just the bits that fit the shiny image. I want to spill out all my insecurities, inadequacies, weaknesses, idiocies. I want people to know I have all the same hang-ups they have, that I'm a very long way from perfect. So there's a big inner tug-of-war going on).

I also tend to keep a tight rein on my emotions. I'm still a bit afraid of my emotions, I'm scared that if I let them rip they'll be so intense, so strong, so wild, they'll overwhelm me and drown me. So I minimise what I'm feeling and tell myself I'm not really that sad, that upset, that angry, that hostile.

So other people probably see me as a bit emotionless and over-cool, because they don't see the swirling currents of emotion churning away under the surface. The fact is that any number of things can hurt me and shock me intensely, I'm just not good at showing it.

But hiding myself, muting myself, isn't just personally damaging, it's an insult to other people. I'm saying, I don't trust you with my real self, you'll laugh at it or trample on it. Which sometimes happens, but most people are kinder and gentler than I imagine.

Heartbreak

People are fond of saying they're heart-broken, but isn't the word grossly misused? I mean, how often are we really that traumatised, that bereft? If people were truly heartbroken that frequently, they'd be basket cases.

Can we really be heartbroken by a celebrity dying? A cancelled holiday? Not winning the lottery? A shop closing or a tree being cut down? Disappointed maybe, or saddened, or surprised. But brokenhearted? An exaggeration, surely?

We've probably never met the celebrity. All we know about them is what we've seen in the media. We have no actual relationship with them beyond personal appreciation. How can we seriously say we're emotionally shattered because they died?

Shops closing, trees coming down, green fields being built on - disturbing certainly, not what we expected, a blow to our nice little neighbourhood. A tarnish on our perfect vision of life. But hardly something to tear our psyche to bits.

The truest heartbreak is the disruption of close relationships, ones that involve our whole being and our deepest emotions. Relationships so strong that when anything fractures them the repercussions shake us to the core.

That is heartbreak proper. Our most basic hopes and expectations are confounded and we have to pick up the pieces and rebuild. It's not just a passing event that skims the surface of our lives.

There's genuine heartbreak too in the loss of precious possessions, things that express our identity and sense of self. Which is why burglaries can be so distressing, out of all proportion to the physical damage, when something very personal is taken from us.

But using the word too casually trivialises those situations where we're truly heartbroken and in real need of comfort and support. Coming to terms with a chopped-down tree is hardly in that league. Let's not pretend it is.

Emotional riddle

I'm not an overly emotional person. I don't rant and rave. I don't collapse in floods of tears. I don't throw things. I don't hurl torrents of abuse. I'm never sure if that's because I'm not prone to over-reacting or because I'm repressing my emotions.

I see people steaming with anger, bitterness, hostility and violence over some perceived insult, festering away for hours with righteous indignation. In the same situation I would probably just dismiss the remark as a bit mean and nasty and then carry on with what I was doing. No rip-roaring emotional avalanche, just a hint of puzzlement and chagrin.

I see people stricken with grief over some appalling tragedy halfway across the world and I think, yes, how awful, a bomb explosion, an earthquake, a mass shooting. But while I sympathise with the hapless victims, I wonder how people can be so overwhelmed by emotion for complete strangers as opposed to their own loved ones. Can they really be that devastated?

Though I have to say that boiling rage is my typical reaction to any kind of deliberate brutality or sadism, be it in Belfast or thousands of miles away. Especially violence against women. So maybe that vicarious grief is as genuine as my vicarious anger.

Then again, I see people consumed by disappointment over a ruined dress or a disastrous holiday, sunk in gloom and recrimination as if their life has collapsed. Their distress seems out of all proportion to what happened. Sure, I would be disappointed too, but I wouldn't be knocked for six by it. I'd just be a bit miffed and wanting to stop it happening again.

Am I lacking some basic emotional reflexes? Some essential human sensitivity? Or am I just too sanguine and philosophical to get worked up into a blistering lather over things that simply don't deserve it? Am I a cold fish or a cool cookie?

Stiff upper lip

Some people love stoicism. They think it gets them safely through a crisis without being washed away in a flood of unhelpful emotions. I'm not so sure about that. It can equally mean suppressing yourself and wading through a load of crap.

Sometimes those so-called unhelpful emotions are exactly what you need. They alert you to what you really want and to the fact that other people are blocking you from getting it. They stop you putting up with things that aren't in your interests.

It seems stoicism and the stiff upper lip are quite recent British traits. Centuries ago we were renowned for being over-emotional and lacking self-control. In fact it was considered essential in the best social circles. Gradually it became fashionable to control your feelings, grit your teeth and take whatever was thrown at you.

But why should we take anything that's thrown at us? Why should we put up with awful working conditions, or domestic violence, or relentless bullying in the name of stoicism and "not letting it get you down"?

Yes, there are times when a bit of self-control is necessary if you want to keep your job or save a relationship. But at other times letting go of your emotions is the best way to protect your self-esteem and stop other people trampling all over you.

I could have been stoical about the way my father insulted me and belittled me, even as a mature adult. Instead I kept away from him and refused to let him treat me badly. I didn't speak to him for years. But I kept my dignity and belief in myself.

I could have been stoical about the boss who persecuted me for a minor lapse in time-keeping. When he dragged me through a disciplinary hearing, I fought him every inch of the way. He still got what he wanted but I felt so much better for having challenged him.

Now and again I come across people who seem to have spent their entire lives being stoical - passively enduring dreadful jobs, tyrannical spouses, contemptuous children and interfering neighbours. And what good has it done them? They've let their identity be crushed and trodden-on and ended up an apologetic shadow of their true self. They've been all too willing to let the bastards grind them down.

Not so bright

Intelligence takes many forms. It's not just a question of doing well in IQ tests or being good at reading, writing and arithmetic.

We all know people who have high IQs or brilliant Oxbridge degrees or glittering careers but are also total halfwits when it comes to socialising, making friends or helping someone who's emotionally distraught.

What use is a mastery of quadratic equations or existential philosophy if you offend and patronise everyone you meet, never listen to anyone properly or can't grasp a person's very different background or personality? You might as well still be a bawling infant.

What's called social or emotional intelligence is just as important as the sorts of intelligence the textbooks concentrate on.

I remember one woman I worked with whose husband had a dazzling academic record and a phenomenal IQ but she complained constantly that as a spouse he was sorely lacking.

He was incapable of comforting or supporting her when she was distressed over some work or family problem. He was embarrassed by showy displays of happiness, sadness or enthusiasm. He never commented on her achievements, only her failures.

He may have had an encyclopaedic knowledge of South American dictatorships, but she divorced him and moved in with a plumber who gave her the appreciation and emotional empathy she was desperate for.

That type of intelligence isn't taught in schools, it isn't recognised as a vital life skill. If you're lucky you pick it up from parents and friends. If not, you blunder through life alienating one person after another and wondering why.

Understanding algebra is good. But understanding the human heart is better.

Men's liberation

According to a new Irish Times survey, Irish men are shedding the old masculine stereotypes fast. And far from being confused and demoralised by feminist demands, the vast majority are content with their life.

The survey says 53% show their feelings easily, 58% think it's okay to cry, 51% are very sentimental, 48% get annoyed by men who stress 'manliness', and 79% are content with their lot.

That puts paid to the conventional wisdom that men feel they're being pushed around by bossy females and just can't be themselves any more. Or the idea that men are still so strait-laced they can't express tenderness or warmth or any emotions other than rage.

Or does it? People don't always tell the truth in surveys, they often say what they think is expected of them, or what will make them look normal or likeable. If the men's partners were asked about their answers, would they agree?

I have a strong suspicion there's some glossing going on here, and the women in their lives might very well say "Mark expresses his feelings? You're joking. He's like a bloody sphinx." Or maybe "Pete's content? But he moans about everything non-stop. He's the original grumpy old man."

But perhaps I'm being too cynical and men really have changed dramatically. That's what my male readers tell me, anyway. It's certainly encouraging to think that despite all the 'backlash' propaganda about shell-shocked men clinging to their masculine comfort blankets, many of them have no problem with opening up and showing their real selves a bit more.

In fact in all sounds so positive I think I'm going to cry.

Hidden emotions

Sometimes I think I control my emotions too much. I'm seldom spontaneously happy or enthusiastic or angry or jealous or admiring. The emotions are there all right but I don't often show them.

Add to this the fact that my emotions tend to be slow-burning anyway, and may only bubble up some time after the event, and I know I sometimes seem to be emotionless. But that isn't so.

It always puzzles those people who voice their feelings loud and clear. They wonder why I'm so cool about something I ought to be really excited about - holiday plans, or moving house, or a sudden windfall or a great new job. Or they wonder why I’m not distraught and tearful over some personal catastrophe or someone’s death. Well, I am excited or distraught but I just don't pour it in all directions.

I suppose I'm a bit suspicious of people who splurge their emotions so easily and so openly. Are they genuine or are they only putting it on because that's what people expect? They're probably totally genuine and I'm just perversely cynical.

I must say at times I find emotionally uninhibited people rather hard to take - it's tiring being assailed by a constant flood of passion and spleen on every conceivable subject. Though maybe they're just being human and I'm a repressed tight-arse.

But I think expressing my emotions too impulsively and thoughtlessly can have unintended consequences, not always positive. I might easily say something that embarrasses other people (or myself). I might be unwittingly offensive or insensitive or shocking. It seems better to keep my emotions to myself unless there's a good reason for blurting them out. Or at least let them settle for a while.

Am I that unusual or are there plenty like me? Come on, tell me honestly. Am I sensibly cautious or am I just a cold fish?

Crying

I seldom cry. Even at times when I feel I ought to cry, or want to cry, the tears don't come. I can appear totally unemotional when I'm anything but.

Even when I'm deeply upset by something, even when I'm at someone's grave, even when I've been told some dreadful news, my eyes are dry. It's one bit of my male upbringing I just can't shake off.

I envy women who can cry easily when the occasion calls for it, who weep naturally and shamelessly when they've been emotionally shattered by some situation. It's such a basic and necessary human reaction, but one I'm rarely capable of.

People often don't realise just how upset I am about something because the obvious sign, bursting into tears, is absent. Merely saying I'm upset can sound hollow and unconvincing.

I know women sometimes cry for effect when they're not really upset, because they know it gets a reaction, but nonetheless they're fortunate they were never forbidden to cry. Nobody told them they were crybabies or wimps or weaklings. Nobody told them they shouldn't be so emotional or fragile or girly.

It's still the case though that women aren't supposed to cry at work - where it's all too easy to be upset. In the macho culture of the workplace, women who cry are still seen as buckling under pressure, unreliable, not tough enough. They have to cry in private or not at all.

When crying is a response to someone else's misfortune, it also helps you to empathise with their experience, to understand the pain and misery they're going through. If you can't cry, it's harder to feel that empathy - it freezes your emotions and your imagination.

When you think about it, telling half the human race they should never cry is actually a shocking act of cruelty.