Warning: This post is for the men only. Ladies, feel free to read it, but there’s some potty talk. Fair warning.
Tough As Nails
We men are supposed to be tough. We don’t cry. If we do cry, we get a mark on our man-card. Four marks and we will lose our card until we can prove we’ve watched 40 hours of Chuck Norris films, used one roll of duct tape for stuff around the house, and logged at least 75 times where we either broke wind (SBD’s not included) or burped out loud.
We men are the strong species. We are the go-to guys. We have the answers. We have the solutions. We drive F-650 quad-cabs with hemi’s, ride wild horses and wear light brown, steel-toed cowboy boots. We’ve read all the John Eldredge books out there. We pick our nose when we want. We smack other guys’ butts when they make a good play on the field, and we spit where and when we decide. We wear cowboy hats and star in Viagra commercials pulling our horse trailers.
But when we men suffer from depression, we have no time for bravado. We can’t “MacGyver” our way through it. Depression is bigger than we are. We can’t always figure our way out of it. We need help. Depression is our Achilles Heel. Like grabbing both feet of any running back in the NFL, no matter how great they are or how much money they make, they will go down every time.
If you’re a man reading this post and you think you may be suffering from depression, there’s only one option:
(you won’t lose your man-card)