The Weight We Don’t Speak Of

Sorrow sticks in my throat like wet sand on skin—gritty, clinging, impossible to fully shake. It’s always the hardest thing to get out. I had a curated playlist on YouTube titled "Shit to cry to." I guess had is the wrong word. I still have it—I just haven’t visited it in a long time. My therapist once told me it was like I’m a sponge for grief. I know how to absorb it, but not how to let go.

I used to pair that playlist with box wine and alone time. Get good and sauced and let it all out like an emotional enema powered by sangria. Tonight I’m enjoying my favorite whiskey and some off-brand ginger ale. No YouTube playlist—just headphones, a drink, and Spotify.

I ran out of excuses this evening, so I did some chores. I picked up the dog crap in the yard. Took the trash and recycle bins out. Then I cut down the “tree”—that overgrown weed behind my smoker. The thing I’ve used as a reason not to use the smoker lately.

I probably fight with myself more than most. Sometimes I freeze behind the screen of my phone, doom-scrolling instead of doing. I can’t really say why, but I know I’ve wasted many an evening that way. Sometimes I think it’s because what I want to accomplish feels too daunting—so I deflect with wasted time.

I try to establish healthy habits, but I easily let myself get sidetracked with more well-seasoned poor life choices. I tell myself that today I’ll step on the scale and begin again—only to forget, or avoid, the very thing I claim to want. Minor inconveniences turn into justifiable excuses to not do all the things. Better luck next week.

I cower at being vulnerable—truly crying, snot manifesting from my nose in sorrow vulnerable. I can’t say with full certainty why. Maybe it stems back to my formative years. Noise was noticeable, and being noticed wasn’t always for the best. So silent suffering meant you were left alone, and in some way that made sense. Sometimes I long to be held and to be told it’s okay to feel, okay to cry. But the words never come out, and I keep it all locked inside.

The world is full of silent sufferers like myself. We don’t hold meetings because that would require communication and acknowledgement of the suffering. The first rule of suffering club is: we don’t talk about suffering club. The silent suffering isn’t just done by men, but I’d wager the early expiration of men might be tied to how many of us never let go of pain.

I think Robin Williams was the poster child for this community. A man who brought joy to the masses, but died by his own hand—unable to provide for himself what he gave to so many. Just... joy. I don’t write this to alarm anyone. I write it to express these emotions, so that others like me might not feel so alone in all of this.

I am better than I ever was about self-care. But I still fully suck at it and tend to withdraw. I’ll shoulder someone else’s burden with ease, but I’ve never felt worthy to burden someone the same way. For that, I also lack an explanation. I know it’s an area I need to improve. I hope to do it without too many doom scrolls or justified excuses in between now and then.

Sunday night, I chose to sit in bed and read instead of doom scroll or put on a comforting show. That is progress—crawling back out of my cocoon of solitude. Slowly, the good habits will return, one by one. And I can judge myself just a little less harshly. I can shine just a bit more. Things will feel a bit lighter. Like all the other skills I’ve taught myself over the years, I believe this is one more I can add to the list of accomplishments.

To add some light to the darkness, I have some things of worth to report. I deleted DoorDash. It’s too easy to summon fast food to the house, and hell—it’s expensive. I kicked that habit. I just finished prepping work lunch a short time ago. That’s two days in a row. I slayed the tree behind the smoker. I have fish that needs to be smoked soon—a new adventure for me.

Justin and I spent the weekend being idiots together and replaced the cooling system on my Jeep. That was work that needed to be done for a while, and getting it done lifted a huge burden from my mind.

To all my fellow silent sufferers: you are not alone in this. A good shower cry is still a cry. Better days will come, and through self-work we can get better. One day at a time. One step at a time. Never stop making progress, and at least celebrate the small victories.

Oh—and don’t be such an asshole to yourself. Plenty of other people can do that for you. You, at the very least, deserve to have yourself in your corner.

Bishop :(: