Have you ever set your hopes so high for someone else that you were crushed with disappointment when they fell short? Has it ever made you sick? Has it ever made you cry?

Yesterday I spent way too much time in a puddle of tears…for a lot of reasons. I want people to understand what I’m going through on November 2 and to empathize. But there are two types of people in this world, I’ve come to find. There are those who empathize and take on your pain and support you the way you need them to (because they ask what you need and they offer that care to you); then there are those who think you should do or think things their way because it’s worked for them and they think it’s the best way. And you know what? It is…for them. Just because someone else who lost a parent takes it all in stride, stiffens their upper lip and keeps on truckin’ doesn’t mean that I have to, too. I cry. I get upset. I miss my fucking Dad, ok? One day I was called out of class in High School for a police officer to tell me he was gone–that I would never speak to him again. He would never tell me he loved me, he would never walk me down the aisle, and the one man I could count on to always show me love and open his arms to my tearful, hurt eyes, would never open them to me again.

Fuck you. I’m allowed to cry. You know where I said goodbye? Bedside at the hospital next to his corpse. You know where I made amends? In the pages of diary after diary that I wrote trying to figure out what I had done so wrong that he was ripped from my life. And here I am, holding an idealized version of my father and hoping that someone will come along and fill in many of those gaps. I want to feel warm and safe and loved; I want to laugh and cry and dance; I want to be open with my emotions and know I am not judged. The fucked up part is that I want this from a man. Losing a father does something to a daughter. The role model for good men was ripped from me and I want so badly to find the man that can fill those shoes.

I’ve been luckier than most, having been loved by great men (at least one great man). But my need for adventure and purpose ripped me from his arms, as well, and I fear I tore his heart a bit when I left. It hurts me every day to consider the pain I must have caused someone who loved me so deeply. But still I search, even here, on another corner of the globe for my knight. And each time, I set my standards, hopes and vision so high. I’m a fantastic reader of people, but I can easily trick myself into seeing what I want to see, not necessarily what is there.

I care for this person and need him more than he knows, but I cannot dig into the superficial. There is not enough substance…it needs to go deeper. On the surface we are what we want others to see. When we open up and go deeper, we find the darkness in our soul. The secrets we keep from others, and the ones we keep from ourselves. These secrets need to be traded, and they are often found beneath a puddle of tears or just beyond a cracking voice. Telling your secrets is harder than any one of us will admit, but being honest is rarely easy. I pride myself in honesty. I will tell you what I want, what I need, how I might react to words, comments or situations, and I expect you to hear it. I play few games. I know what I need and want and I let it be known. So, yes, my expectations are high, but they are not unreasonable. I am not asking you to read my mind, I’m just asking you to give a shit about what it is thinking and how I am feeling.

I am a strong person. I fucking know. DEAR GOD, I FUCKING KNOW. Please PLEASE stop telling me this. Every time someone says to me “You’re so strong” I hear: “Do not be weak. Crying is weak. I look to you for strength because you persevere.” PERSEVERANCE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH TEARS. You know how you get through shit? You know how you overcome the worst things life has to throw at you? You confront it! With anger, and frustration, and screaming, and crying, and snot, and overworking yourself. You do whatever you have to in order to survive. Being “strong” is not something I take as a compliment. I see that as a cop-out. Fuck strength. Who cares about showing face? You need bravery. Bravery to go against what everyone is telling you is right because your gut says they’re wrong; bravery to cry when everyone sees you as “strong”; bravery to admit that, even though you’re taught that being alone is perfectly acceptable, you need someone there by your side. I need someone to lean on and, fuck, man, my friends are incredible. But they are not my Dad. They cannot give me the comfort a man can. It is an entirely different dynamic, and frankly, I think my admitting all of this publicly is brave as hell. This is strength. This is what I need. I will not lower the bar and one day, the person I am talking to, or another I pass along the road, will rise to that bar and together we will be brave.  We will bring out the strength in each other.