For over twenty years I have been living a life of big risks and middling rewards, with an inbuilt candle-at-both-ends requirement and less than zero margin for error.
I’m tired. I’m very tired.
What I’ve really come to this week is that I’d like to stop now.
Not sure where I go from here.
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For what it’s worth, I’ve had so many moments of absolutely crippling sadness. Longing and pain that literally takes breath away, that makes breathing impossible, leaves a person gasping for air and pulse swinging erratically between fatally absent and fatally explosive. Hell, the other day at the gym I could barely stand up. And I wasn’t exercising. I was watching others do it while struggling not to collapse under the existential weight of being.
Oh yes. Moments, days, even weeks of utter desolation. Not looking people in the eyes because you just don’t have anything to give them.
People ask why guys don’t share these things.
We don’t share them because it doesn’t fucking matter. Sharing them makes nothing better.
Tragedy. Tell friend. Tragedy remains. They can’t fix it for you. Nobody can fix it for you. You’re not eight any longer. Those days are gone. Only you can fix it for you. Others rely on you—not the other way around. That is what it is to be a man.
The telling—the telling is just more of a scarce resource to spend.
Want to know why guys have a shot of whiskey late at night and look off into the distance?
It’s because in their deepest self, they are dying a slow and painful death yet again.
So that they can get up and do it again tomorrow.
It’s such a loss that women don’t understand men any longer—find them to be inscrutable, hate them, even. Hell, men don’t understand men any longer. But don’t let anyone tell you that we don’t have any feelings. We just stand up and do what we have to do in spite of them—for as long as we can, as tall as we can, until we die prematurely, which is what statistically we do.