To properly prepare for this week’s newsletter, I rewatched Ari Aster’s “Beau Is Afraid” last night, wondering if I’d still find the movie as wonderful (but shamefully relatable) as I did the first time and if there was a direct line from it to my latest obsession with failed masculinity. It exists, obviously. Blue paint and all, it exists.

Most of us — and I include myself in this “us” — don’t suffer outwardly and in such a psychedelically nightmarish way as Beau does, but the more visceral Little Boy anxieties he experiences are very familiar ones: Fear of being a disappointment to family and friends. Fear of leaving the house. Fear of taking the wrong medication. Fear of intimacy. Fear of mom and dad. Fear of being stabbed. Or robbed. Confrontation. The Manosphere! Judgment. Death. Life. Fear of the unknown — fear of unknown fears.

Many of the men who wrote in for this edition of “What It’s Like”— to tell us about their own Little Boy Shit — are stricken with some of the same terrors Joaquin Phoenix’s diminished Beau character is. But the real test for me — for most of us right now — is what is the solution to becoming less afraid? Like survivalist camp? Steroids? Hair plugs?

My best solution so far is joy. (And BJJ.)

But mostly: joy.

Best of luck to us all.

If you are unfamiliar with our Check-In format:

All the Anonymous writers below are credited collectively as “The Small Bow Family Orchestra.”

The ***** separates individual entries, as do pull quotes.

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By The Small Bow Family Orchestra

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My fear is very deep and multifaceted. It’s hard to narrow it down to what I am most afraid of. Vulnerability is challenging for everyone, especially men since we are taught from a very young age that it’s a sign of weakness. Yet, my fears go deeper than exposing myself as vulnerable or weak. It’s more a fear of the unknown.

I want to know everything about a subject before I get involved. This need has proven a crippling handicap to my progress and evolution toward a fully functioning adult life. I am so afraid of failure, of not doing something “well” that I find myself procrastinating or giving up before I even start.

This fear has affected my relationship, my professional career, my secondary career as an artist/ musician, and of course my self esteem. The amount of negative self-talk I am dealing with is sometimes so overwhelming that it seems like my whole day is spent trying to intervene and redirect unhealthy thought patterns. I am fully aware that I’m standing in my own way. I know it could be so much easier and healthier. I’m working on it.

I got sober 5 years ago. I’m in individual therapy and couples therapy. I’m part of a weekly men’s support group where we discuss topics exactly like what I am wrestling with here. It’s all helping. I’m trying to learn patience, kindness, and how to affirm my self-worth. I just switched my meds which gives me more hope. I have a great support network. I have to remember that I am the most important part of my support and recovery.

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My therapist told me to say out loud all of the things I think about myself: you’re ugly, you’re fat, you’re stupid, you’re useless, you are a creep, you are unlovable, you deserve every bad thing that happens to you. Then he made me look at an old photo of myself as a child and told me to say those things to him. It couldn’t do it. But my dad did.

He used different words, and maybe he didn’t mean it, but he’s dead and I’m here.

When a woman says they love me I don’t believe them. When they tell me I’m handsome I tell them I’m not actually.

One day when I finally accept it in my heart and say thank you, the lights will come on, the set will roll away and they’ll show me the cameras. The TV host will come out and say, “You idiot. You actually believed her?”

But nobody has said those things to me in years. I am 48. I don’t think anybody ever will again, if they ever did. I try to tell myself I’m okay with that. Sometimes I actually am. I have good days. Then I look in a mirror or I see a photo someone took of me at work and all I see are the wrinkles, the gray hair, the fat gut, the dumpy clothes. Disgusting.

I was supposed to be a writer. I was supposed to have a family. Not only am I disgusting, I’m a failure, too. Who would ever love that person? Pathetic.

The last thing my dad said to me was, “You look good.” I think he actually meant it.

But he had dementia, so probably not.

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My sons dying before me.

Dying alone.

Relapsing.

Running out of money.

My irrational fears and my anxiety are great dance partners. When they get together for any length of time it's never any good. It’s never much fun. I mostly feel quite capable, but for me it’s the lack of motivation and lack of the deep desire to make real change that can sometimes drive me nuts. I feel like I’m not taking a chance on something bigger or something more grand and fulfilling.

On my deathbed, I don’t want to have a regret that I did not “do the thing.” I don't know exactly what “the thing” is but what I’m doing right now ain’t really it.

I’m scared of my parents passing away. And as the only son in the immediate family, I feel this pressure that I’ll have to step up as the masculine figure and continue the family name, pass down valuable lessons, and try to replicate what my father has provided all of us. I’m just not sure if a digital marketer has powerful lessons to share with future generations. I’m sorry to my future daughter and nephew — I can’t fix the car or hunt or repair the roof shingles…but I can show you how to write a Facebook post!!

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If you google “mommy issues” there should be a picture there of me. My mommy issues are pretty basic. I try to make my mom love me and stay with me through every intimate relationship I have with women. This has led to a basket full of grandiose and codependent behaviors, and a trail of failed relationships behind me.

Mom walked out on Dad and me when I was three to pursue her career in modern dance. Throughout my childhood she was an elusive and unreliable person. But she was also exotic, creative, compelling and beautiful. She packed me up for trips to various communes and collective living situations in NYC lofts before that was bougie. I felt like her carry-on item.

One of the many agonies I was attempting to numb with drugs and alcohol was a deep fear of abandonment, fueled by a dark certainty that I was grotesque, ugly and unlovable. This came from a story I was telling myself about myself, based on the chaotic version of motherhood she practiced. I don’t tell that story anymore.

Years of therapy later, and with the love and support of the rooms (especially Al Anon), I have come to forgive her, and celebrate who she is and has been for me and the many students she has taught. She’s 87 now and lives alone. I am moving to Colorado to go to graduate school and be closer to her as she ages.

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I was a small boy. Though I grew into what the charts call average, I still feel small as a man. I move through life with the fear that any disagreement could tip into a fight I’d lose badly. The result is that I never really learned how to calibrate anger. I get scared too easily, or I don’t get scared soon enough. Either way, the anger comes out sideways.

When I was seven, I bent the wheel cover on my bike in a minor collision with my next-door neighbor, Seth. I wheeled it home, and my father lost his shit. I blamed it all on Seth, and my father said, “Well, I hope you took care of Seth for breaking your bike.”

I went back up the street to where Seth was chatting with some other kids, and without warning, punched him as hard as I could in the face. He went down in a heap. I turned from the stunned faces and ran home to tell my father what I’d done.

His shame was immediate, and I was confused.

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Not sure if it counts as “man stuff” but it’s wild that I am in my mid-30s and still feel like the little brother. And I grew up the oldest kid! It never fails at a party or work event, I end up sitting off to the side, separate from all the cliques. Attended my first AA meeting this week, and felt less like that than usual, but I’m still terrified that I’m breaking into somewhere I don't belong. I hope someday I’ll feel like I belong where I am.

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My father died about six months before my second birthday. People usually apologize when I share this in a conversation, but to me it just feels like reciting a biographical fact. My eyes are brown (like my father’s), my hair is curly (like my father’s), and my dad is dead. Sometimes I’m jealous of my brother, who, born two months after our dad died, hasn’t had to experience what losing a parent feels like yet. I don’t have any memories of my dad that I can think about, but I know we had a bond, and I know that the day I woke up and he was gone, that bond was broken.

I’m terrified of what this loss has taught me to expect from relationships. If anyone can leave at any moment, then I deserve that freedom too. I hate feeling needed by other people, trapped by their expectations and hopes. I don’t trust many people. I always need an escape. If I can’t do something by myself, then I won’t do it at all.

I wish I could return to that day almost 30 years ago and tell myself what happened: It’s nothing personal, it’s no one’s fault, sometimes these things just happen. All of us have to die eventually. But these things are hard to explain and accept even as an adult, and I imagine to a little kid, it just seems like sometimes you wake up and someone is gone.

Sometimes I dream about becoming a dad. I think I would really love parts of it. There are a lot of amazing things in this world, and I’d love the opportunity to introduce someone else to what I love: camping under the stars; looking for cool rocks; what it feels like to stand at the top of a mountain and feel the wind rush through you.

But I’m afraid — how can I be something for someone else that I never had myself? How can I set a good example when the only point of reference I have is absence? I’m afraid that part of me will always be a little kid who went to bed one night with two parents and woke up with only one. I can’t change that and I can’t fix it either. The best I can do is sit with that little kid and not let his fears run my life.

If sobriety has taught me anything, it’s that I need to eat dinner, wash my dishes, brush my teeth, and go to bed. Get sober and get over myself. The way you turn absence into presence is by being present in your own life. I need to make dinner and wash my dishes. I can do it scared, just as long as I do it.

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Little Boy Shit I’m Afraid Of:

Big Boy Shit I’m Afraid Of (still all of the above):

I’m most afraid of my kids ending up with someone like me. And also afraid they won’t.

I want their person (if they choose that path) to be someone like me. Someone who tries to be kind. Who believes people are mostly good. Who’s made their mark (whatever that means) without sacrificing their integrity. Who would walk into an inferno to pull them out without hesitation.

But I’m afraid they’ll meet someone like me. The liar. The cheater. The rage-filled one. The one who chooses pleasure over principle. The one who manipulates, who deceives. Who feels ugly on the inside, and sometimes believes it’s permanent.

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II think, all the time, whenever I see some dude being awful in public, hating people or genders he’s never really met, just how easily could’ve fallen into the trap of blaming everyone else. If I’d had a slightly less privileged upbringing, if I’d gotten slightly less lucky with my first job out of college, if I’d fallen in love with someone who couldn't show me kindness*, in retrospect I feel like I've spent my life a razor’s edge away from just being an awful, hateful person. And when I look around, there are so many hateful people in our world, and a disproportionate number of them are men. When we were pregnant with our first child, people would ask me if I had a sex I was hoping for, and they’d always be surprised when I told them I wanted a girl. “Why?” “Can you think of a single [cis] white man who is a role model?” So far, I think we’ve managed to count 4, in the six years since our daughter was born.

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I’ve lived most of my 45 years afraid of the world finding out I’m “me.” That I’m too weak and unskilled to work a trade. That I’m not smart or ambitious enough to hold down a desk job. That I’m not thoughtful enough or lack sufficient talent to earn a living as a creative. That I’m too selfish to be a good husband and father. That I’m too dumb, unqualified, and unaccomplished to own (and maintain) a home, raise a family, and/or have financial stability. That I’m too lazy and ugly to deserve strong physical health. That I’m not good enough to pursue a career that gives me any meaning or personal relationships that come close to meeting my needs as a human being. Any success I’ve enjoyed was a fluke and could be taken away if “they” find out about “me.” Then I’ll lose my family, my home, and everything else. In the same way marketing professionals seek to garner attention for their product, I make similar efforts to hide mine. My fear prevents me from having “wants” — my primary goal is to survive.

At some point, I started tackling this fear in therapy. So, I spend mornings practicing mindfulness, afternoons reading about stoicism, and evenings thinking about gratitude. But the fear is always there and the constant deluge of “self-help” I lean on sometimes feels more burdensome than the problem itself, which opens a new avenue of fear called, “you’re wasting your life.”

It is easy to say, “I give up,” resorting to food, alcohol, or dropping a few hundred dollars on something for a short-term break from the fear. I used to do that a lot and I’m still trying to fix it. But ever since I recognized these patterns, I don’t self-destruct as much anymore. Perhaps this recognition and the persistence to move forward in life despite my fear is good enough. I doubt I’ll ever know.

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A little over 7 years ago, our youngest child took his life. He was 17. Life instantly stopped and the pain slowly closed in. Endless pain. The why live anymore type of pain. If there were signs or clues, we missed them as did his closest friends, this was a total shock. He was my soul.

Two years of grief counseling morphed into another year of marriage counseling. I was in a place where I was unable to talk to my family, or anyone, about my grief — they were suffering in their own journey . . . separately. Friends were understanding but unless you are part of this tragedy club, it’s impossible to connect at a level that is helpful. The thing that I was most proud of, the one thing I did best, was being a dad. I loved it, all of it! Now it was crushing me.

What to do with all the grief, the second guessing, the cruel self-judgement, and the ultimate recognition that you failed as a parent . . . as a father. It’s been a never-ending sadness that no amount of alcohol, drugs, or meds has been able to cure me of.

When I found TSB; the rawness of it all, the willingness of strangers to share their self-loathing and their imperfect beacons of hope drew me in. We’re all hurting — I understand that now. And knowing this has allowed me to move to a slightly different place where light occasionally filters in.

Even so, I’ve resigned to the fact that I will probably always feel less than, like a man of no consequence or as they used to say, an empty suit. That reality hurts in a place different than the grief — it strikes at the core of my being.

I’ve struggled to write this — I’ve never shared this deeply with anyone but because I’ve gotten so much from this community, here I am. I want to be a better human, to feel whole at some level, and get to a place where one day I can help others who are in need. I want to believe, and feel, that I am not a failure.

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Comments are open on this post. Please show your support for everyone who generously wrote in. Thanks.

MORE IN THIS SERIES:

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Monday: 5:30 p.m. PT/8:30 ET

Tuesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Wednesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Thursday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET (Women and non-binary meeting.)

Friday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET and 4 p.m. PT/7 p.m. ET

Saturday: Mental Health Focus (Peer support for bipolar/anxiety/depression) 9:30 a.m. PT/12:30 p.m. ET

Sunday: (Mental Health and Sobriety Support Group.) 1:00 p.m PT/4 p.m. ET

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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:

by Wendell Berry

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I go among trees and sit still.All my stirring becomes quietaround me like circles on water.My tasks lie in their placeswhere I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comesand lives a while in my sight.What it fears in me leaves me,and the fear of me leaves it.It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.I live for a while in its sight.What I fear in it leaves it,and the fear of it leaves me.It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,mute in my consternations,I hear my song at last,and I sing it. As we sing,the day turns, the trees move.

— via Library of America

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