He comes to the group seeking something. Maybe he’s not quite sure why he came, but he decided he needed to come to the group. Maybe its to fill some void, maybe to answer some unanswerable question, or quiet some voice in his distant past which will give no peace. He’s hesitant entering the room. Although warmly accepted by the leader and introduced, he still feels ill at ease, not quite sure if this was the best decision. Hopefully these are his peers, his comrades, his battle buddies. Hopefully, somehow, they’ll get it because words seem to fall short right now. Why is it so hard, he wonders, to just say what’s bothering him? Why can’t he seem to find just the right words to make this gnawing feeling he has go away?
The stories flow, the shared laughter is soothing to hear. These guys seem to be OK, they’re easy going and not very judgmental. But he still sits back more than talks, not sure, as yet, how his words will be received or accepted. So he bides his time, maybe looking for the right time to speak.
Maybe it’s a word that he hears, maybe a phrase, a story, a remembrance. Something sparks in him and he contributes a sentence, an observation an opinion. It goes well, he thinks, everyone smiled, laughed, agreed. No one bit his head off, no one called him stupid. He starts to believe this is safe territory.
The stories go on. The memories of combat and war and service seem familiar to him. Although the uniform may have been different, or the location of his service, the results were the same. He realizes he’s not the only person in the world who feels this way or has these reactions to everyday things. More trust, deeper trust. Shared situations, shared past lives and experiences seem all too familiar now. Maybe he made the right choice coming here. Maybe these strangers weren’t strangers after all, but brothers in arms. Maybe they could help him find the words that have eluded him for so long. Too many years, too many missed opportunities, too many nightmares for too long never finding peace and rest. Maybe now it ends. Maybe now, peace, at long last.
I only wish we had more hours to spend together. I only wish these sessions could go on and on. But we have our outside lives to go back to, and that magical comradery has to cease for now, but never end. Hugs all around because that’s what brothers do, hug each other. I notice tears in his eyes, I notice he’s crying.
Its hard enough for a man to cry. I never expect him to tell me why, because I know I’ll be waved off being told “I’m OK, I’m fine”. Did we touch a raw nerve and trigger him? Did we make a breakthrough and give him room to express himself? Were these tears of joy because he finally arrived at where hes been traveling all these years? Every man has his reasons to cry. I respect those reasons. Tears in a man don’t come easy. They are precious gifts offered baring his soul and his emotions because he feels he can, he’s allowed to, its OK.
Every single man in the group hugged him. With kind and supportive words he learned another lesson. Its OK for a man to cry. We’ve all cried. More times than we can remember. And we’ve all laughed. We’ve shared the gamut of emotions because we trust each other, give a damn about each other. Maybe to finally come to that realization, to finally arrive at that safe place is overwhelming. But overwhelming with joy. Joy so deep and fulfilling that it overflows the ability we thought we had to stop it as men. There’s nothing wrong with that. We’re human. We’re not stoic supermen.
