Going Foward

Writing here is really hard for me. Admission of feelings is a foreign thing to most guys. We're strong, we're stoic. We beat our chests and pretend to be invincible. We stand tall in the face of adversity, and face danger head on. We try to convince ourselves that we're modern day superheroes, and, to their credit, our female counterparts let us believe it.

But when it comes to admitting to a weakness, no matter how well deserved, guys will tend to balk.

This isn't a blanket statement, of course. I know there are plenty of men out there in touch with their feelings and completely comfortable sharing them. Neither is the above meant to alienate or effeminize those particular guys in any way (and yes, I just made up a word there). I just mean to point this out to try to help define why it is that, for me, coming here isn't the easiest or most desirable thing to do.

I do it anyway because I'm a man, and, damn it, if a thing's difficult then it's a challenge to best... But really I do it because it helps ease my burden, and at this point I've neglected my burden so long it's begun to weigh heavily on my heart.

We're at almost one year since losing my son with his fiery hair, and each passing second brings me closer to reliving the very worst days my life has seen. My anger, which I had assumed gone, has flared again. I know the futility of it and that just serves to stoke the flame. I cry out in silence with hysterical rantings to God, and I arrogantly question his plan. Why!? is the most common thought in my head. No other question seems to matter. That one word has the power to sum up every feeling of regret and loss, encompass every thought.

Why? Why...

I've tried to convince myself He's answered me in some form or another, and maybe He really has. Maybe I'm not open to hear Him. I tend to only really understand plainly spoken words, and simple metaphor. If anything more complex than that isn't spelled out and explained part by part, then it's lost on me.

So, lacking an answer, I'm left to wonder, and I'm left to my imagination to the purpose of any of this. And the closer we get to August 13th, the worse it all becomes. You'd think at this point in the grieving process most of the tears would be gone. I hadn't cried, really cried, in 6 months. But those tears have been there, just waiting, and now they pour from me like... well I wanted to say a fountain, but that's a bit cliche, so let's try to be literal:

They pour from me like a man with a dead son and a broken heart.

I'll try to face this challenge more often.