The Poker Face!

 

Life is such a funny thing, man. 

Sometimes I sit and think about it for a little too long, and honestly, I probably shouldn't. You start asking questions that have no business being asked at 2 a.m. You begin wondering whether we are all just some elaborate amusement for the gods. Perhaps they sit somewhere above us, looking down, deciding who gets the soft life, who gets the difficult one, and who, for reasons known only to them, is born already sliding through lava.

Maybe they even place bets on who makes it. Which would be particularly cruel because, if they are gods, surely they already know the ending.

But maybe I am overthinking it. What do I know?

I was having a conversation with a favourite stranger last week about this thing called fate. Honestly, I don't really believe in it. I struggle with the idea that somewhere, somehow, there is an already-written script for my life. That before I even showed up, somebody had already decided who would become rich, who would remain poor despite giving life everything they had, who would die young, who would become an alcoholic, who would find love, who would lose it, and who would spend years trying to put their life together only to watch it fall apart again.

If that is the case, then what exactly are we doing here?

Why work so hard? Why take risks? Why dream? Why pray? Why wake up at 5 a.m. when apparently somebody somewhere has already written Chapter 34 and there is nothing you can do about it?

But then again, what do I know?

What I do know is that, I have seen strong men.

I have seen rich men. Ambitious men. Men in suits and men in overalls. Men with offices, men with tools, men behind desks, men in dusty streets, men building businesses, men looking for jobs, and men creating jobs where there weren't any. I have seen men in prison.

I have seen men trying to change their circumstances with everything they have.

But perhaps more than anything, I have seen desperate men.

And desperate men are different.

Not necessarily bad men. Not necessarily weak men. Sometimes they are good men who have simply run out of acceptable options. There are men who endure quietly. They don't complain much. They don't cry much. And even when they do, trust me, you probably won't see the tears. Men have become remarkably good at crying without anybody noticing. Those that have mastered the art of looking at the ceiling for three seconds, clearing their throats, saying "I'm good," and proceeding with life as if nothing happened.

Because somewhere along the way, being a man became synonymous with being able to figure things out.

You are broke? Figure it out.

Your family needs you? Figure it out.

You are heartbroken? Figure it out.

You don't know what you're doing? Excellent. Figure it out.

Nobody seems to ask whether you are okay. The more important question is whether you managed to get it done.

So, they keep showing up.

They show up for their children. They show up for their partners. They show up for their friends. They show up for their families. Sometimes they show up for people who would never even know how much it cost them to show up.

They protect with whatever strength they have left. They provide with whatever little they have. They try not to burden people with their problems because, apparently, somewhere in the masculine handbook, there is a chapter titled "Don't Make Your Problems Someone Else's Problem."

And so they absorb.

Disappointment.

Humiliation.

Rejection.

Financial pressure.

Hunger.

Failure.

Responsibility.

Fear.

They absorb one thing after another and keep moving. Until one day, something changes. The question is no longer, "What would a good man do?" It becomes, "What do I have to do to get through this?"

And I think that is where things get complicated.

Because sometimes the difference between a man who is praised for his strength and a man who is condemned for his desperation is not as large as we would like to believe.

Sometimes it is circumstances.

Sometimes it is one more unpaid bill.

One more rejection.

One more person depending on you.

One more night wondering how tomorrow is going to work.

One more door closing when you were already standing outside three others that had closed before it.

Eventually, even a good man can start asking questions he never imagined he would ask. Not because he stopped being good. But because desperation has a way of changing the conversation inside your head.

And this is where I think we need to talk about survival.

Because nobody actually enjoys surviving.

We romanticise survival when we are safely on the other side of it. We call it resilience. We call it strength. We tell people how strong they were and how proud we are of them. But while you are living it?

It doesn't feel inspirational.

Sometimes survival is working three or four jobs because one salary simply won't do. Sometimes it is borrowing money from someone you have no idea how you are going to repay, while confidently saying, "I'll sort you out," as if your financial situation has suddenly undergone a miraculous transformation.

Sometimes it is suppressing your emotions for years because you were taught that whether you are happy or hurting is somehow secondary. What matters is whether you did what needed to be done.

Sometimes survival is taking enormous risks.

Sometimes it is becoming emotionally numb because feeling everything becomes too exhausting.

Sometimes it is isolation.

Sometimes anger.

Sometimes pretending you're okay because explaining that you're not okay would require you to admit just how badly things have fallen apart.

Sometimes survival means making morally complicated decisions because every available option seems terrible and you are simply trying to choose the one that hurts the least.

And sometimes, unfortunately, survival becomes destructive.

Violence. Substance use. Recklessness. Crime. Self-sabotage. Other forms of extreme coping.

None of that makes harmful behaviour right.

It doesn't.

Understanding why someone arrived at a destructive place is not the same thing as approving of what they did. Compassion does not require us to abandon accountability.

But perhaps we have become too comfortable judging the final chapter without ever asking about the twenty chapters that came before it.

We see the angry man and ask, "Why is he so angry?"

We see the addict and ask, "Why doesn't he just stop?"

We see the criminal and ask, "What kind of person does that?"

We see the man who finally breaks and say, "He should have known better."

Perhaps.

But how did he get there?

That question bothers me.

Because it is easy to say what we would have done when we are standing outside somebody else's circumstances.

"I would never do that."

Would you?

Maybe you wouldn't. Maybe you have a stronger moral compass. Maybe you have more support. Maybe you have better coping mechanisms. Maybe you were blessed with people who showed up for you when life became unbearable.

But what would have been different if you had lived his life?

Would you have had the same opportunities?

The same childhood?

The same financial pressure?

The same responsibilities?

The same losses?

The same people depending on you?

Would someone have been there to catch you?

Would you have known who to call?

Would you have had the luxury of making the morally perfect decision when every available option looked terrible?

I don't know.

And neither do most of us.

That is why I think we should be careful about writing people off too quickly, particularly men.

Because sometimes the man everyone calls difficult is simply exhausted.

Sometimes the man everyone calls cold has spent years protecting himself from disappointment.

Sometimes the man everyone calls irresponsible has been carrying responsibilities nobody bothered to notice.

Sometimes the man everyone calls weak has been strong for far too long.

And sometimes the man we call dangerous is a man who reached the edge of what he could emotionally, financially, psychologically or physically carry.

I thought about all of this after watching John Q. Shed a tear? No. 

But, man, didn't that movie humble me.

I went into it expecting a movie. I came out of it needing to explain to myself why my heart was breaking. I think I need a better heart too, this one is way too emotional .

It wasn't simply the story of a desperate father.

It was the helplessness.

It was watching a man who believed his job was to protect his family encounter a situation he could not solve through hard work, patience or doing the right thing.

And when all the respectable doors closed, desperation entered the room.

That is what got me.

Because I think many men are walking around with the same basic promise to themselves:

"I will figure it out."

We just don't talk about what happens when a man finally reaches the point where he doesn't know how.

What happens when the provider can't provide?

What happens when the protector cannot protect?

What happens when the strong man is scared?

What happens when the man everyone depends on has nobody to depend on?

Maybe that is why I cried.

Not because I am particularly emotional.

Although, clearly, the evidence suggests otherwise.

Maybe because there is something deeply painful about watching someone reach the point where they are no longer choosing between good and bad. They are choosing between bad and worse.

And perhaps many of us have known a smaller version of that place.

Maybe you have had a season where survival meant swallowing your pride.

Maybe you have taken a job you hated because bills don't care about passion.

Maybe you borrowed money you were embarrassed to ask for.

Maybe you smiled when you were falling apart.

Maybe you became quiet because you didn't know how to explain what was happening inside you.

Maybe you made decisions you are not proud of because, at the time, you genuinely believed you had no better option.

Maybe you are still trying to find your way out.

I think that is the part of male survival we don't talk about enough.

We talk about men when they succeed. We talk about them when they fail. We talk about men when they become dangerous too.

But perhaps we should talk more about the space in between.

The long, uncomfortable space where a man is simply trying not to drown.

Because sometimes survival doesn't look noble.

Sometimes it looks ugly. Sometimes it looks selfish. Sometimes it looks reckless.

Sometimes it looks like a man becoming a version of himself he never intended to become.

And sometimes, beneath all of that, there is still a human being who was simply trying to make it through another day. So maybe before we ask, "What is wrong with him?" we should occasionally ask, "What happened to him?"

Before we ask why he didn't make the right choice, perhaps we should ask what choices he actually believed were available. Before we judge the behaviour, perhaps we should understand the desperation.

And before we confidently say, "I would never do that," perhaps we should sit with the more uncomfortable question:

What would have been different if I had lived his life?

I don't know whether life is fate. I don't know whether the gods are sitting somewhere watching us struggle, laughing at our little attempts to make sense of everything.I don't know whether there is a grand script or whether we are all just improvising our way through this strange, beautiful, ridiculous thing called life.

What I do know is that there are men walking around today carrying battles nobody knows about.

They are working. They are laughing. They are providing. They are protecting. They are showing up. They are saying, "I'm good."

And perhaps they aren't.

Perhaps they are just surviving.

And maybe sometimes, before we judge the way somebody survived, we should have the courage to ask what they were surviving from. Because all they might be doing is putting up the Poker Face!