At odd moments I find my thoughts running amok. I'm crying over sappy commercials on TV, watching old movies I know will hit me emotionally, listening to Delilah on late night radio (sad but true, sad but fuckin' true). I'm finding it hard to laugh when someone tells a joke or something they think is funny. Everyone is wondering what's going with me but I just can't talk about it, I am afraid talking about it will bring it more life make it more real, and I can't handle another dose of reality.

And the anger. For the most part it lies dormant but rears it's ugly head at the oddest moments and I blow up over the smallest things, and lash out at everyone whether they deserve it or not. Deep down I know I'm not myself, and I think I know why. I'm helpless. I couldn't stop Ivan from killing himself, I wasn't there to talk him out of it or rip the gun from his hands.

I've dismissed the theory that men are "fixers" as a bunch of psychobabble, now I'm beginning to wonder if it has some validation. Over the past few weeks things have happened over which I've had no control over and it pisses me off. I'm helpless. I hate it. I begin questioning everything. Friends intentions, doctors, God, and human existence in general. Though I have little faith to begin with, the world is crashing in around me and no one can tell me why. They say:

"We'll pray for you."

Whatever.

"Think positive."

Yeah right.

"It's all going to turn out for good."

The good of whom?

"It's all in God's hands."

Don't get me started on that one.

All I feel in this moment is life can kiss my White Irish Ass.

                          ******************************************** 

But then I realized some weeks later, life lessons are ongoing, they never end if we allow ourselves to be taught through experience to better ourselves. I've cried more in the past few weeks than in the last year, everytime I felt it was the last time because surely I was all dried up. Then something, anything, would trigger my emotions and I'd find myself all balled up fetal, head in my hands, sobbing like a newborn, eyes all puffy red. Hard to hide since I don't like anyone seeing or knowing I've been crying, so I'd try to fib my way out of it.

"Allergies, you know?"

"I've got something in my eye."

"No, I'm just tired, didn't get much sleep last night."

The latter was partially true sometimes.

I've found tears are cleansing. Though all the emotions remained at different times after I was all cried out, there was a sense of release, letting go. Don't get me wrong, I don't plan a public display of weeping, but I've stopped watching sappy movies, I ignore commercials, stopped listening to sad music all the time, and I never want to hear Delilah on the radio again.

All life is a precious gift no matter how short, no matter the circumstances of illness, death, and the unknown. The days on this earth we call home are few and fleeting. From one day to next we don't know what may happen to those we love, those we hold dear, even the length of our own existence is questionable. I don't like this part of life and doubt I ever will. But I have to believe there is little to gain spending each day mad at the world, angry with God, or cynical and unbelieving about every little thing or every person in my life.

Maybe I have the "fixer" complex, hell I don't know. But I'm not Bob Villa, Dr. Phil, or Jonas Salk. But I've realized it's not the "fixing" that's important, it's the way I brave life's ebb and flow as a man giving worth to those I care for and love. And though there's nothing wrong with showing emotion in front of others, I don't care to, and I've accepted this about myself. If I have to put on the courageous mask of bravery and strength so others I love can benefit, it doesn't make me weak, it makes me stronger.

Men were born with broad shoulders for a reason, and more often than not it has little to do with outer strength. My heart needs to be just as broad as my shoulders when it comes to this life. Is it easy? No. Is it simple? No.

Is it worth it?

Yes.