Don’t tell me to be a man.

I want to answer you honestly when you ask me what’s wrong, what’s bothering me. I want to be open about my feelings. I want to know it’s okay, natural, for me to cry. That I shouldn’t be ashamed of my feelings.

I want to have close friendships with people. I don’t want to be completely independent, walled-off, robotic. I want friendships, and I want those friendships to be based on compassion and understanding not coded language and mild violence.

I don’t want to be in control 24/7. I want to hear what other people have to say, to learn from others, to let them make decisions.

I want to be able to make mistakes, and know that it’s okay for me to make those mistakes. How can I be expected to learn from my mistakes if I can’t even accept that I’ve made them?

I want to be gay. It doesn’t usually seem obvious, but being a man implies a certain heterosexuality that alienates me from the gender I was given at birth. Why does my manliness depend on who I spend my life with? Who I love?

I don’t want to be confrontational. I don’t want anger to be the one emotion I can freely express. I’m shy, I’m socially anxious, I’m introverted, and that should be okay. I don’t want to be loud and take up so much space.

I don’t want my value to be based on physical ability. I want to value my intellect, my communication skills, my emotional capacity, my creativity. I want to read instead of lift weights without feeling less of “a man.”

I want to be secure in my identity, comfortable with myself. I don’t want my humanity to crumble at the mere possibility of rejection, of failure. Masculinity becomes more fragile the higher up you get, and I’d rather jump off than climb to the top.

Don’t tell me to “be a man.” To “suck it up.” To “grow a pair.”

I don’t want to “be a man,” I want to be me.