THE RESERVOIR

I’ve got to be honest, I feel like I’m holding back a reservoir, and it’s only a matter of time before it breaks.

I don’t know what will happen at that moment. I might just crumble, collapse, be useless for a while, while I sob it out. The waters, the massive, heavy waters of this reservoir will swallow me in a roar and sweep me out of sight.

I don’t think there’s any shame in being emotional; a lot of men are, though most of us try to hide it. We say to ourselves that the man-thing to do is to control it, to channel it, tame it, hold it back, like a lion, like a storm, like a reservoir.

We are wrong, I think. But, here I am, muscles twitching as I hold myself just the acceptable side of tears. There are three reasons why, and it’s occurring to me that I haven’t yet dealt with any of them.

There’s a helplessness to real crying. It’s not like the delicate moment of a movie. No piano twinkles in a minor key, no strings swell through the octaves. The light is bright or the music loud. And then your face collapses into a mess, that of an uncontrollably distorted, red-cheeked, blubbering baby. And that’s embarrassing, because we can’t help it.

But it’s also good. And it’s good because it’s real. And nothing brings people together like being real. We’re designed for honesty, for openness and for the joy of connection. It might take me a while, as I figure out how, but I think it might be time to stop holding on, to let go, and to let those waves and breakers finally crash over me.