Daddy's in the Loo, Crying

I have never exposed myself like I'm about to to any other person except my wife. And that's only because she's always bloody there.

It was a bright Spring morning. It was my turn to get up with the baby and allow my wife the lie-in she deserves every day, but I also like a lie-in so she doesn't get to have it every day - don't give me this 'I carried her inside of me for 9 months yadda yadda yadda' - I know, and I'm sorry, but that also sounds pretty fucking awesome in some ways that I will never get to experience so hush. I digress.

Spring morning. I didn't get a great night's' sleep. I rarely do if I'm being honest. Nothing to do with having a baby; by this point she was sleeping through the night. I have mental health problems, and I often stay awake in bright rooms getting as far away from my thoughts as possible before burrowing under my duvets to spend a few more hours catastrophizing, panicking over bullshit, contemplating my own existence, wondering why I don't have any friends etcetera, etcetera, et-fucking-cetera.

Babies seem to mirror the way you are feeling. My wife is always an absolute joy and sickly sweet, and as a cynical man with emotional issues, that makes me angry, more out of jealousy than anything else. Me - I'm a right fucking grump. If I am not in a good mood, it's written all over, I can't hide it, and my eyes may as well be rolled to the back of my head because of how insular and self-pitying I become. The baby may not know the ins and outs of my destructive mind, but she sees me sporting a big fucking strop - she feels it - and she too is now in the thick of it.

So we're having a bad morning. I'm consolidating my silent tantrum with a floppy head and a hunchback, shuffling across the kitchen, dropping tea bags and spoons, spraying myself in the sink, tripping over the cats because I'm not lifting my fucking feet; all the while, trying to keep an eye on my curious little lady who just wants to play and break the chains of my episode. She gets into things that she shouldn't be into. It's dangerous. And instead of saying 'what if we play with something else sweetie? Or read a book? Look! Bear Hunt! You love Bear Hunt!', this grown ass fucking petulant brat of an adult starts to feel that manly angst inside and sternly says 'no! Stop that - absolutely not!', goes over, grabs her firmly, plonks her down elsewhere. 'Now play there'. She cries. Some fucking man you are.

And I feel this. I feel the fact that I'm failing. I'm failing her - she doesn't deserve that shit, nor should she ever experience it at my hands. i'm failing my wife because I am the one she chose to be her partner in looking after the most prized thing she could ever have in her life. And of course, to round of the cliched list, I'm failing myself, because seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me.

I can feel my jaw tense along with my shoulders. I grind my teeth. I flex my jaw because I can feel myself about to burst into unjustified anger or unwarranted tears. But I hold it. I can hold in my emotions. At least I can do that right. The wrong thing to do, but at least I can do it right.

I fix her breakfast and we go to the table. I dump it all out on the tray, let her at it, and stare into the void of my phone, begging the unknown, vitriolic internet to give me a moment to dwell on that isn't my own mind. I know I shouldn't be on my phone while I'm with her. Be in the fucking moment, bro. You might actually enjoy it. But no. I'm gone. Goodbye world. The cyberverse has called me.

My daughter is at that stage where she likes to pick up her food and drop it over the edge. Like it's a game. A game for Daddy's attention. First couple times, I lean over, grab it, put it down on her tray. Silent. Third time - I pick it up, eyeball her, straight faced, put it down, and say 'no - don't do that'. Fucking tears. I don't know why now, and why not earlier when I needed it, but at this moment I became a softy. Begging her not to cry, apologizing, stroking her face, rubbing her tiny tears away from her cheeks, kissing her forehead. Too little too late fucko.

My wife comes out the room.

She's an immediate pleasure. A real fucking joy to behold.

Straight to the baby. Asking her what's wrong. Calming her down.

Our little girl reaches for her - grabs for her - desperate for the love she'd been denied all morning. My wife takes her out her chair, and our daughters head just falls into her chest. Her little hands placed motionless on my wife's shoulders. She stops crying. She's at peace.

She daren't look at me.

I give up my chair. My wife sits with her for a moment. They come apart from their skin to skin and smile at each other. She goes back into the chair and starts feasting. She's showing my wife the scrambled egg, my wife pretends to nibble at it, my daughter smiles and pulls it away, straight into her mouth.

I melt.

All she wanted was my attention.

'You okay?' My wife asks me. Not 'why is she crying', not 'what the fuck was happening', but 'you, husband, grown ass bloke, adult able to take care of himself, man who shouldn't be so easily rattled, are you okay?'

'Yeah, I'm fine. Just gonna use the loo.'

Ahh the loo. My sanctuary. My asylum. My refuge. It's no surprise men take so long in the bathroom. Sometimes it gives us that piece of independence we perceive ourselves to need. In my case, I can be too afraid to ask for some time to myself - that independent time that we all need. Why don't I ask? I'm afraid it shows weakness. A chink in the armor. So instead of asking for the time to free my mind and rid myself of the ultra-masculine shackles that confine me, I take that extra time in the toilet to zone out, take a few deep breaths, escape, have a bit of a cry. And take an extra long shit, if it calls for that.

I did my crying in there that day. It wasn't the first time that I did it, and unfortunately, it probably won't be the last. But fuck - it felt so good to cry. To release my jaw and allow myself to make the ugliest sad face you could imagine. To permit my eyes to blink and let my tears join the party on by one. The things my mind and my body so desperately needed but were denied. And all of a sudden, I felt better. I felt better prepared for the rest of the day, although, a nap would be nice. And sadly, as I was leaving the loo that day, I still felt ashamed. First of all, for crying. Second of all, for being so pathetic that I should be ashamed of myself for crying. Third of all, for not being a good father, or husband that morning.

I go back to join breakfast with the face of a man who had just been punched by an onion wearing pepperint gloves, acting like nothing had happened.

'What's wrong, bab?' asks my wife.

'It was all just a bit much this morning, that's all.'

'That's fine. Talk to me. I want you to tell me when something's wrong. Not run away.'

So we talked. I told her all the reasons I was unhappy that morning, all the guilt that went along with it all, the unwarranted and unnecessary reactions I chose. And my wife said to me, after all the admissions of poor choices and immature behaviour, that is was fine, and understandable - but - one thing I should never, ever do (for the umpteenth reminder from her) is run away, or hide my emotions.

It's amazing that after three years of marriage, a handful of mental breakdowns, and every day showings of instabilities, I am still determined to not cry in front of my wife. At the same time as trying to raise a child to be compassionate, empathetic, caring, conscientious, all the while, acting like a robot. Not a man - men are not robots. Men are caring. Men are tender. Men are loving, and gentle, and brave. Men have emotions, and understand them, and can control them without resorting to angry outbursts of rage and violence. We are not animals (if any taxonomists could chill and not be so literal I'd appreciate it), we are not machines, and, most of us, are not sociopaths. But by leaning into the learned absurdity of 'masculine' traits that all men should use as a guide for their life, we can create of ourselves animals, robots, and sociopaths.

Men are diverse and unique and do not all pursue the same journey or have travelled the same paths. Men are human and flawed and that is not just perfectly okay, but it is desired. Because perfect doesn't exist - 'man' doesn't exist - so why the fuck are we striving to be something that isn't our 100% completely flawed selves? We can still strive for perfection in the knowledge we'll never get there. I know at this point that I'm not going to play football (SoCcEr!!!) for Arsenal, that doesn't mean I'm not gonna play football. Maybe I'll never be a professional writer - that doesn't mean I'm going to stop writing. Maybe I'll never be mentally stable - but I refuse to condemn myself to misery.

It's okay to cry, lads. And I know we've heard it all before. Shit, I tell myself every day - doesn't mean I allow myself to. But that's why we keep reminding ourselves - until one day, when that human urge to cry presents itself over legitimate reasons, we won't stop ourselves and bathe our cheeks in the redemptive water of our tears. And we will feel better. Use the loo if you need to - I still do! Fuck, I use public loos sometimes too. If you need a safe haven, then fine. The important thing is allowing yourself to let yourself feel. Once you can do that, maybe you can allow yourself to show those close to you how you feel too. I have been struggling with this for like, 10 years, and I'm still not there yet. It's not an overnight fix, but the steps you take to reach that goal are steps worth taking - I can tell you that much.

Being a Dad is really fucking hard at times. And obviously, the most inconceivably euphoric thing at others. And I know that's another cliche but fuck you, cliches are cliches for a reason. What we need to normalise is saying that we struggle. With fatherhood, with mental health, with whatever. I have been a father for only a year, but already I know that some fathers definitely have a tougher job, and that I am certainly not alone in how I feel, even if I convince myself of that. I make mistakes, I feel things I feel guilty for feeling - but I am not a bad guy, and I am not a bad father, especially not for having feelings during an emotionally exhaustive time in one's life. So we should own those emotions, acknowledge them, embrace them, and let others see them; it's the only way we can develop and recover and learn to control our emotions. We can also find the support that we all need, and support is always there, even when you can't see it. Allow this blog to act like that. Not necessarily to give you specific answers, or any advice whatsoever, but to show you that YOU. ARE. NOT. ALONE.

I always worried - still do - about passing on my mental health issues to my daughter. And to a certain extent, that's up to me. I need to be free and open. I need to withdraw the obstacles in my mind. I need to find ways to be in the moment, enjoy what is right in front of me, touch it, and let its inherent joy absolve me.

And I will.

And so will you.