A letter to a young man in pain

BY JOHN FELDKAMP

Author’s note: This piece was inspired by the death of Rochester Institute of Technology/National Technical Institute of the Deaf student Michael Altieri, whose passing is a tragic reminder of the messaging our patriarchal society constantly relays to boys and men: that they do not belong. If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal ideation, call or text the Suicide Hotline at 988, and feel free to utilize the resources below:

Suicide Hotline (Call or Text): 988

Suicide Prevention Resource Center and resource guide for LGBTQIA+

National Alliance on Mental Illness Data on Male Suicide

When the seasons change, will you stand by me? 

Because I’m a young man built to fall.

Young the Giant, “Mind Over Matter”

Young man, 

This world has let you down, I’m sure. In your moment of need, you desired wisdom, support, or simply a hand on your shoulder — just a pittance of “I love you.” You clenched your fist in the eye of the storm, you lost your balance, maybe you fell. Nobody taught you how to be a man. Or perhaps they did, but it was an amalgam of toughness, anger, emotional mutilation. They taught you that pride and power are the epitome of success in this world. They told you to take it at all costs. Men and boys taught you to be hungry, violent, indestructible; and they never asked you to just “be.” 

Maybe you felt ashamed. You felt that your family, your friends, your own people, perhaps even you, would never accept you for the man that you are. Maybe you wore a lie, a mask that only comes off behind closed doors, or never at all. You look in the mirror and see a dastardly creature of your own making – Frankenstein hastily stitched from broken pieces. Or maybe you see nothing but a hollow vessel that was once filled to the brim, but was since emptied through the cracks. Someone not worth loving, not worth forgiving. The same people who birthed you, fed you, gave you life now make you feel like a virus with no discernible cure. Your identity is left to rot in pits, crypts, and fantasies for time spent adrift when reality is far too much, or far too little. 

Maybe you were confused. As you grew up, you saw others who had it all figured out; the solution to some universal calculus that simply escaped you. The humdrum of your own life speaks of a dull gray in a world so enlivened by rainbows and fractured by hate. Where do you fit in? You may feel like they have a blueprint in a language so foreign to you it feels like it’d be easier to submit to gravity altogether. You did everything right, how could that be? You went to therapy. You bought a journal. The math didn’t add up. You were never that good at math anyways.  

You’ve felt pain — insurmountable, indescribable pain — I’m certain of that. You have bled your soul into your words and had them beaten back into the trough. Perhaps it was a pain so immense that the mere conception of that memory drives a dagger deep into your heart. You’ve felt love; that warm can-barely-contain-yourself love, and then you’ve had that love ripped from your clutch. It’s okay. I have, too. 

I know you’re tired. I know you want to rest your eyes. I know they’re heavy; and with all that weight you carry on your shoulders I have no doubt that you need sleep. But I also know that feeling when your body betrays you; the turbulent beating of a distressed heart and anxiety’s alarm clock chiming away. Where do you go when the body you call home wants to evict you? No rest for the wicked. 

I know you’ve made mistakes, you’ve hurt people. I have, too. I know it feels irredeemable, and like the world may be better off without you. You may think it is scary. It is. You may be at the fault line — stuck between where you are now and the promise of something better. Misery is familiar at this point, and something new might be worse. That chasm is terrifying. I know. It’s also an opportunity. 

You put up your umbrella and the rain poured through all the same. I get it, and I’m not here to fix your umbrella. I’m here to show you that it’s okay to dance in the rain. I know it’s easy for me to say, and I know it’s hard for you to hear. You’ve been hurting for a long time. But if you’ve read this far, it means that you have eyes to see. So, just for a moment, come sit with me.

HBC writer John Feldkamp watching the sun setting over Salt Lake City, UT.

Look at those clouds. Ugly, misshapen things that they are — and yet they are nestled under a glistening sunset in a way that feels brand new every time I lay my weary eyes on it. The orange cast across the sky reminds me of glowing coals after a long night by the campfire. They emit a warmth, a reminder of a night well-spent arguing with my closest friends over the best Star Wars movie. Do you know this feeling? When was the last time you went camping? 

See the way that the clouds grow, shrink, and dance together? Some new clouds form, some old ones fade; the sky is in an eternal waltz with the sun. When was the last time you danced? 

No, really, when? 

You might feel unconvinced. That’s okay. Let me put my hand on your shoulder. You may feel apprehensive, uncomfortable, or relieved. There’s a flurry of emotions when another man touches you. What is your body telling you? Do you feel embarrassed? That’s okay. When was the last time someone touched you? Tell me about what makes you feel loved. We can sit on this bench all night if you please.

Sunset in Naples, New York.

Look out upon the emerald canopy of the tree line. See the way that the branches sprawl in all directions? Chaotic, right? But essential, because they offer shade and protection to the critters on the forest floor and home to those in the trees. If we’re lucky, we might just hear an owl call into the night, or the howls of a pack of coyotes who have found their dinner. Their sounds remind me of my father, who on late nights would never miss an opportunity to remind everyone around what he’d heard in the woods. Sometimes, the chatter of animals in the forest can be a comforting chaperone when we’re lost. Sometimes, all we need is the deafening silence of a midnight alone because our thoughts are enough. 

In medicine, we’re often told not to miss the forest for the trees, but I ask you to do the opposite. I know it can be hard not to see a shroud coated over the world in front of you. You may have been in anguish for so long that beauty escapes you. That’s okay. It’s not gone forever, and neither are you. In this moment, with me, see the trees. Notice scratches in the bark carved by lovers and woodpeckers alike. Notice how each branch has its own personality, every leaf a different shade of autumn. They may all be a part of the same tree, but these leaves experience change differently. No leaf judges another for the way it reconciles with nature. 

Young man, I will not see you for a forest, but for a tree. From your roots to your twigs, blemishes and all, you are beautiful, unique, and worthy of sunlight. This world has not nourished you, and it may have even tried to uproot you. I am glad you are still standing. I will never place you in a box or ask you to deny yourself. I may not have been exactly where you are, but I know you deserve to be heard, received, and felt wherever this writing finds you. The next time you find yourself walking a delicate line between life and death; whether it be today, tomorrow, or in a decade, take a moment and see the trees, feel the breeze, channel your breath. Allow yourself permission to exist in your skin without judgment, and allow the world to see you seated amongst it. You do not exist outside the forest. And if you can marvel at the enchantment of the world around you, let it envelope you.

I am glad you’re here.