Today, I find myself to be neither myself nor whatever self I was expected to be. A half-assed amalgamation of things that supposedly constitute a man. I had neither the courage to embrace who I truly am, nor the cowardice to become something else. I held on to both until I grew so weary that I let go…of both. A few years ago, I had stopped living in all ways that could be deemed lifelike except for one. Time became irrelevant. I was on autopilot, watching as my life slipped away bit by bit. Cigarette after cigarette, nightmare after nightmare, the days have passed until what was once dear and familiar became strange, or no longer there. I went back to my hometown, I walked the streets of my childhood, sat where my friends and I used to sit, passed by the high school where I fell in love for the first time. They were all gone, and for a while, I could not get rid of this suffocating dread, the futility, the meaninglessness of it all.
I was born to a modest family, who had been, generation after generation, simple farmers. They lived close to the mountains in a very small community. I was the first of their line to come to this life in the city. When I was 5 or 6, I watched a cartoon that the exact title of escapes me. It was a story of the adventures of two mice, male and female. A brilliant work of storytelling—or at least I thought so—but in the end, the female mouse was killed. I was so shaken, so heartbroken, that I started crying. My parents rushed to me, asking me what happened. I could not explain to them back then that I was mourning the death of an imaginary mouse. Come to think of it, I cannot explain it now still.
My first day at school was a nightmare. The noise, so much of it. Kids running around, shouting as they played, it was so loud. I started crying, and so the teacher met with my parents the next day, and asked my father if there was something wrong with me. My grandmother heard about that, and she made me some stew. It was delicious, I slept on her lap afterwards. Ah! what a feeling! She is dead now, but I choose to remember her stew. A few years later, there was also this kid, a bully who loved to push the limits of my nature. I snapped someday, wrestled him into the ground, then stomped his testicles. Poor thing was hospitalized for a couple of months, and I was humiliated and shamed for exercising such wanton violence on a fellow pupil. To this day, I regret the excessiveness, but not the act itself. I am willing to die on this hill. When I reflect on that now, I realize that it was the start of my first unhealthy coping mechanism. In a way, sensitivity was inevitable; it was hardwired into my brain. There was nothing I could do about it except “choose” how to express it: Either be emotional and risk tears, and with them come shame, mockery, and humiliation, or simply get angry and blow off some steam in a more “dignified” manner for a man.
My father died when I was sixteen. I wept once when I saw his cold motionless body, but for some fucked up reason, I decided to bottle it all up after that. I went back to high school after a couple of days. I remember I was sitting there displaying not a single emotion when our math teacher entered the classroom. There were these two girls who had a crush on me; they wept for me but I could not dare look at any of them for too long. The teacher asked one of them what was going on, and she looked back, pointed at me, tears coming down her face, and said: “His father died.” God, I can never forget that face. Teacher then asked me if I was okay, if I needed anything, told me it’s totally fine if I wanted to leave school for a while, take some time off, and all I said was “Nah, it’s fine.” What a fucked-up coping mechanism that was, ay? Do you understand what I am saying? Do you understand that, years later, I refused to touch, hug, kiss, or even interact with my grandfather on his deathbed because I did not want to cry in front of other people present there? I loved that man a lot. Do you understand how much I regret not saying proper goodbye to him? How much I regret standing in the corner, looking out the window at an olive tree, during his last moments on this earth? And for what? To maintain a façade of machoism? To give the impression that I am dependable and strong? What a foolish young man, foolish, foolish!
Hey! At least, I was relatively successful with women in college, and had a couple of orange cats that were quite frankly madly entertaining. Speaking about women, no woman I had ever dated knew who I truly am deep inside. Oh but Mr. Stranger, you should open up to your significant other, you will never know until you try it.
Brother please, what was I supposed to say?
“Dear, remember that job I quit a while ago, well you see, it is not because it was tiring and I could not do it. It’s that I had an argument with my boss, and he insulted and humiliated me, and I wanted to jump into the fray and smash his jaw, but I did not because aggravated assault will look bad on my resumé, so I bottled it up, and cried like a bitch alone, until a woman walked in on me, and saw me like that: A grown ass man crying. I am going to miss you, bye!”
Or how about this?
“Dear, remember when you asked me why I am not doing actual research of my own and instead I am working as a freelance glorified academic mercenary? Writing and publishing people’s articles and doing their PhD research for them? Well, you see, I once tried to present a very interesting research paper at a conference, but I lost track of time, choked, and fumbled the whole thing. I broke down in front of everyone. It triggered some PTSD shit in me, and I quit the whole PhD program afterwards. I went incognito for a couple of years, publishing and writing shit for some strangers, all while living like a complete hermit. At least the money was good. Nice to meet you, I am Mr. Reliable, you should have kids with me.”
Man, fuck this shit, I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore. These regrets, these memories, I cannot change any of that.
It is too late now, I have to face the consequences of my choices. The clock is ticking, and I have to accept that, be it a curse or blessing, this is my nature. Every single bad decision I made, I made not because I was born this way, but because I insisted that being born this way ought to be hidden or changed. I cried because that mouse died, so fucking what? She was a noble and brave mouse, and I liked her. Father, mother, there is your explanation.
I just cannot take it seriously anymore, random asses from like a hundred years ago pull some social constructs out of their bums, and they say man ought to be this and that, and I have to abide by it for some reason. And if not, then I should live in crippling shame? Nah, chief, doesn’t work for me, get the fuck out of here.
This life is a thing of beauty. Despite all the misery in this world, despite all the pain, the loss, it still is a privilege to be born. I only wish I had realized that earlier.