Strangeness of Tears

In keeping with what today is in anniversary of and the tone of my post last week (my first post in a loooong time), I had decided that this week would be in contemplation of what makes us people and how we feel. I shed tears as I made my post last week, and as this day has barely begun for me, I have already shed tears thinking about where I was on that day and where I was when it happened.


But it feels strange to cry sometimes. Perhaps it has been too long since I cried merely for the cathartic value of a tear shed. Maybe because for men to cry it is seen as a sign of weakness, and who wants to be seen as weak, right? It could even be that you don't want to have to explain to someone exactly why your face is so red and exactly you were just crying about because it would likely result in more tears.

I think we as a society are restrained in too many ways, and not enough in others. Now, maybe people like Laura Ingraham, conservative radio talk show host are right about the "pornification" of our culture. In that sense we are not nearly restrained enough. But for the mere concept of tears results in so much inner turmoil for a person, that is the true sign that something about our society is genuinely screwed up.

So go out there and let your feelings be known. All stifling your feelings is going to do is hurt yourself in the long term and diminish your usefulness to yourself and those that rely on you. I'm not saying go out into the world and become some sort of overly-militant activist for and be a complete prick to the rest of the world, but the only thing that's going to result from holding all those tears on the inside is mildew of the soul.

I Am A Rock, Yet Who Shall Be Mine?

I know it's been a long time and I hate to come back on such a downer, but I need to talk again.

I feel pain in my heart. It is no small wound.

Not any more, at least.

It has been gnawing at me for quite some time now. It has been as if some part of my soul has atrophied and fallen away, and the only thing rushing in to fill the gap left in its wake is more darkness.

The tears push outwards, inevitably working their way through whatever half-assed defenses I try and stall them with. I can stop the tears when I am around others, but it feels like trying to block the flow of an ocean with a beaver dam.

I fear the day that I know will one day come. The day I will burst into tears uncontrollably and fall into a whimpering heap on the floor in front of someone. The day I become useless.

I have never seriously thought of killing myself. That is not to say I have never contemplated suicide. In truth, I believe the thought goes through the mind of every person, no matter how sane they may or may not be. But I know that should I ever do that my absence would cause an irreparable harm to those who know me. And I have been raised better than that.

And I believe to some large degree therein lies the crux of the matter.

For the most part, I am a fairly generous person, constantly giving of myself and my time to almost anyone. I try to be everything to everyone because there is so much I can do and so much that everyone else needs, and many times I am the only person who can or will give. I give and give of myself to such a degree that I no longer know who I am. I stay so busy that there really is no time for me to figure it out.

I believe I am probably bipolar, or at least suffer from occasional bouts of depression. I know there are times that I display many of the symptoms associated with both. But I fear that if I go to a doctor, psychiatrist, therapist or whatever, they will say “You must take this pill!” and the second that I do, I will cease to be the man that God made me. I will no longer have the talents that God blessed me with and I will no longer be able to fulfill whatever destiny God had in store for me. I will ultimately lose the drive that keeps me going. And that is the last part of me I know that is redeemable. That is the part of me that everyone loves, or at least tolerates. And it is the part of me that they need. I fear I will no longer be the “me” that God has made me and will become whatever “me” the chemical makes me.

It just get a little difficult sometimes, being the “rock” that others rely upon.

Who will be my “rock”?

I ponder just walking away from it all sometimes. Just getting up from wherever I happen to be whenever the mood strikes me and keep walking. Not to any place in particular. Just some place else and watch from the sidelines.

Not that I’d ever really go. Too many people need me and would be hurt if I left, and I can’t let that happen. And besides, when it comes right down to it, there’s no place that I really want to go.

And there’s too much work to be done.

And never enough time.