"it's all an act you're playin'
it's a role that we put on
and it's a faded coat somebody
handed down into our hands"
it's a role that we put on
and it's a faded coat somebody
handed down into our hands"
["Let It All Fall", Bung]
I emerged from the basement after ushering the last of my friends out the door and locking it behind them, and, carrying our dirty dishes, stepped into the kitchen to set them on the counter before retiring upstairs to bed. It was an excellent evening of gaming, kicking off a brand new Dungeons and Dragons campaign I had been preparing for over a year. I was elated.
There, on the floor of the kitchen, for the umpteenth time, was yet another puddle of water, indicating that once more in what would eventually stretch into a six-week long saga of "the brand new dishwasher leaks" a phone call and a bitter argument would be required tomorrow, on the part of myself or, more likely, Liza-Ann. I set down the dishes, sighed heavily, mopped it up with a few paper towels, and made my way to bed, my heart sinking with each step. And in my head, the battle with my conscience began.
I just...
She's probably asleep. You going to wake her?
I just...
You fucking pussy. It's trivial.
Yes, first world problem, I know. Yes, not a big deal in the scheme of things. Yes, it's "just a thing, not a person" (I would say, were it not me.) No injuries. No serious damage. Such a small thing.
I just need...
You fucking tool. It's just a dishwasher. It's just a puddle. You're being irrational.
I know it's trivial, that's not the point. I get that I shouldn't be this upset but...
You shouldn't and you know it. So don't be. Go to sleep. Cope.
But it was just so incredibly disheartening. Explaining why this particular trivial thing upset me so deeply would be a sort of therapy I'd rather not get into here. It matters only that it did. I'm a pretty rational person, but not always. I can be sensitive, perhaps overly so at times. I don't deny that.
As if I'll sleep! I'm not getting to sleep in this mood. But if I just...
Go to sleep. Deal with it tomorrow, you stunned little wuss.
Is it so wrong to just feel vulnerable? Just for a minute? That's not wrong.
Coward. You don't wake her up. Cope and tell her tomorrow.
As I quietly undressed and slipped into bed, I could tell by her breathing that Liza-Ann wasn't fully asleep, but probably in that boundary area where she was just drifting in and out. Years of sleeping together has taught us both to be able to tell when the other is fully asleep or not.
I just need to feel like it will all be okay.
Of course it will. You gonna risk waking her just so you can feel better?
Several long minutes of contemplation passed, as I lay there blinking at the ceiling. I wished I could put it aside and go to sleep. I knew I likely wouldn't. I knew that from the moment I saw the puddle and felt the life drain from me that I would likely have a very sleepless night.
If she were upset, I would want her to wake me. I would want to be able to comfort her.
Sure, because that's what men do. But men don't wake women looking for comfort.
Then I thought about something Ivan Coyote said that time I saw them.
This one does.
I mustered up the courage and said something like, 'Can I have a hug?'
Sleepily, she rolled over and wrapped her arms around me tightly, and I instantly felt better.
The most important thing here isn't the hug, or the dishwasher, or the lengthy saga. It's not for what strange reason I might have found it as upsetting as I did, or even that I was upset at all, or that I was fortunate enough to have Liza-Ann to comfort me (though I do very much appreciate it - love you, babe!) It's that several long minutes part.
After two years of examining, disarming, and dismantling the unwritten rules that our culture long ago instilled in me, it remains a struggle to fight back the coded impulses. Even having drawn back that curtain, pointed at Mr Wizard, and said "AHA!", even fully recognizing the ridiculous bullshit with which I was indoctrinated and now eagerly part with, it is a fight sometimes to overcome the sort of instincts with which I was programmed. It's contending with a base impulse of "what kind of man will people think you are if you do this?"
And I'm writing this today because I realized I needed to do with this little monster-in-the-dark the same thing I did years ago in my "journey of self-discovery" of my first online journal: I needed to show it the light of day. Back then I took those things about myself that most hurt me, those "secret shames", and put them out there in the world because I knew that was the difference between hiding and fighting. It was the difference between a quiet, internal, eternal struggle, or a louder, shorter, external one. It was through a "Let the chips fall where they may" attitude that I came to acceptance of a great many things about myself.
And for a long time, I haven't had to do that, because I haven't been digging deep enough to find one. The newfound shovel of my deeper dive into "what is masculinity anyway?" has shown me there are still things lurking in the darkness, deeper down.
I don't need an 'attaboy'. I do not expect, require, or desire sympathy. Rather, I want to simply share my reflection with others, because I want other men to take a closer look at their programmatic gut reactions and their self-imposed exile from emotional connectivity. I want them to dig deeper. You are both the hostage and the hostage-taker in this scenario. Which role you accept is a choice.
I accept my vulnerability. I refuse to remain hostage to some shit I was spoon-fed by society as a child. I will forge my own path forward.
Behold, one and all, my delicate, soft underbelly: sometimes, for the dumbest, most ridiculous reasons, I have a moment where I just feel emotionally exhausted about some stupid little thing, and I need a hug. Just to feel better.
Gentlemen, you should give it a try. It's very liberating.
There, on the floor of the kitchen, for the umpteenth time, was yet another puddle of water, indicating that once more in what would eventually stretch into a six-week long saga of "the brand new dishwasher leaks" a phone call and a bitter argument would be required tomorrow, on the part of myself or, more likely, Liza-Ann. I set down the dishes, sighed heavily, mopped it up with a few paper towels, and made my way to bed, my heart sinking with each step. And in my head, the battle with my conscience began.
I just...
She's probably asleep. You going to wake her?
I just...
You fucking pussy. It's trivial.
Yes, first world problem, I know. Yes, not a big deal in the scheme of things. Yes, it's "just a thing, not a person" (I would say, were it not me.) No injuries. No serious damage. Such a small thing.
I just need...
You fucking tool. It's just a dishwasher. It's just a puddle. You're being irrational.
I know it's trivial, that's not the point. I get that I shouldn't be this upset but...
You shouldn't and you know it. So don't be. Go to sleep. Cope.
But it was just so incredibly disheartening. Explaining why this particular trivial thing upset me so deeply would be a sort of therapy I'd rather not get into here. It matters only that it did. I'm a pretty rational person, but not always. I can be sensitive, perhaps overly so at times. I don't deny that.
As if I'll sleep! I'm not getting to sleep in this mood. But if I just...
Go to sleep. Deal with it tomorrow, you stunned little wuss.
Is it so wrong to just feel vulnerable? Just for a minute? That's not wrong.
Coward. You don't wake her up. Cope and tell her tomorrow.
As I quietly undressed and slipped into bed, I could tell by her breathing that Liza-Ann wasn't fully asleep, but probably in that boundary area where she was just drifting in and out. Years of sleeping together has taught us both to be able to tell when the other is fully asleep or not.
I just need to feel like it will all be okay.
Of course it will. You gonna risk waking her just so you can feel better?
Several long minutes of contemplation passed, as I lay there blinking at the ceiling. I wished I could put it aside and go to sleep. I knew I likely wouldn't. I knew that from the moment I saw the puddle and felt the life drain from me that I would likely have a very sleepless night.
If she were upset, I would want her to wake me. I would want to be able to comfort her.
Sure, because that's what men do. But men don't wake women looking for comfort.
Then I thought about something Ivan Coyote said that time I saw them.
This one does.
Sleepily, she rolled over and wrapped her arms around me tightly, and I instantly felt better.
The most important thing here isn't the hug, or the dishwasher, or the lengthy saga. It's not for what strange reason I might have found it as upsetting as I did, or even that I was upset at all, or that I was fortunate enough to have Liza-Ann to comfort me (though I do very much appreciate it - love you, babe!) It's that several long minutes part.
After two years of examining, disarming, and dismantling the unwritten rules that our culture long ago instilled in me, it remains a struggle to fight back the coded impulses. Even having drawn back that curtain, pointed at Mr Wizard, and said "AHA!", even fully recognizing the ridiculous bullshit with which I was indoctrinated and now eagerly part with, it is a fight sometimes to overcome the sort of instincts with which I was programmed. It's contending with a base impulse of "what kind of man will people think you are if you do this?"
And I'm writing this today because I realized I needed to do with this little monster-in-the-dark the same thing I did years ago in my "journey of self-discovery" of my first online journal: I needed to show it the light of day. Back then I took those things about myself that most hurt me, those "secret shames", and put them out there in the world because I knew that was the difference between hiding and fighting. It was the difference between a quiet, internal, eternal struggle, or a louder, shorter, external one. It was through a "Let the chips fall where they may" attitude that I came to acceptance of a great many things about myself.
And for a long time, I haven't had to do that, because I haven't been digging deep enough to find one. The newfound shovel of my deeper dive into "what is masculinity anyway?" has shown me there are still things lurking in the darkness, deeper down.
I don't need an 'attaboy'. I do not expect, require, or desire sympathy. Rather, I want to simply share my reflection with others, because I want other men to take a closer look at their programmatic gut reactions and their self-imposed exile from emotional connectivity. I want them to dig deeper. You are both the hostage and the hostage-taker in this scenario. Which role you accept is a choice.
I accept my vulnerability. I refuse to remain hostage to some shit I was spoon-fed by society as a child. I will forge my own path forward.
Behold, one and all, my delicate, soft underbelly: sometimes, for the dumbest, most ridiculous reasons, I have a moment where I just feel emotionally exhausted about some stupid little thing, and I need a hug. Just to feel better.
Gentlemen, you should give it a try. It's very liberating.
