Why guys hide their feelings. Why Guys Disappear and How to Deal.



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Why Do Guys Tend To Hide Their Feelings?



Why guys hide their feelings

Whatsapp I didn't think twice about the fact that we moved a lot, or that Dad always traveled separately. Then one day in middle school, Mom finally explained that we were fugitives. No one talked in the waiting room. A man with his back bent swept the clean floors, slowly. I wondered if he was a prisoner too. We were late because I had tried on one outfit and then another, reverted back to the first, put on some makeup and then took it off. I was 13 years old, visiting my father in prison for the first time, and it was easier to worry about what to wear than what I might feel when I saw him.

Dad had sent my sister, Caitlin, and me instructions before we flew over to California from England where we lived with our mother. Caitlin was two years older than me, covered in clusters of freckles just like our dad. She was the strong one; at times it was hard to tell she was even affected. Our big brother Evan was doing an internship in London so he was unable to join us. Dad had the wife of his cellmate act as our guardian instead, and she escorted us through the system: I spotted Dad before we reached the visiting room, through layers of wire fencing, the sniper in a watchtower circling above.

It was a face so particular to him in its mixture of anticipation and worry, the same face from back in the days he picked us up from school. I waved at him, but he turned his back on me. I was bereft for a moment, and then the guard told me not to make hand gestures at the prisoners. I understood that this would be awful in ways I was entirely unprepared for.

My parents, sister Caitlin, 3, and I, 18 months, while on the run living in Italy in It was five years earlier, on a sunny Wednesday morning before school, that Mom first told us our father was a fugitive.

We were living in Bradford on Avon at the time, and every other weekend we visited Dad at his townhouse in London. I looked forward to this time together: I still harbored secret hopes my parents might one day get back together. Mom was waiting for us in her king-size bed. It was the same bed in which I was born, and the same bed that had travelled with us all the way round the world, from California where this all started through the five countries and 13 houses that followed, with more yet to come.

She was still, waiting, tense. She began once we were settled. She said it was for him to tell us what he had done when he was ready. She explained that was why we had left America when I was two and why we had moved around so often.

Seven years had passed, and Mom and Dad believed it was behind us until the authorities showed up on our doorstep the week before, and Dad had disappeared, on the run once more. Our family name, Kane, was not our own but an alias, like criminals use, and my real name was Tyler Wetherall. I tried it out for size on my tongue and felt like a stranger. Our phone, our house, and our car were likely bugged by Scotland Yard — they were working in conjunction with the FBI to find our dad — and we had to assume anytime we talked they were listening.

If anyone approached us at school or in the street asking about Dad we were not to speak to them. Most importantly, we must tell no one what was happening in our lives. The next day we went back to school as if nothing had happened. I felt displaced and uncertain. Before we learned that Dad was a fugitive, I had lied without knowing it. I said we travelled the world because my parents were hippies and thought it would be good for us; I said we moved to Europe from America because my mom wanted to be closer to her English family; I said my father was a stockbroker and his work had taken him abroad.

All these things were true in their own way, but shades of truth that hid the actual truth completely. Now I knew I was lying and I knew what was at stake. More than anything I was scared it would be something I said or did that would lead them to him. For the most part, we lived a normal childhood: My mom was a former model who ran away from home at 16 and then paid her way through New York University, graduating summa cum laude.

She had agreed to go on the run with Dad mainly because it seemed like a better adventure than being a jail wife raising three kids alone. And for a moment it was. Mom with Caitlin, 2, and me, 6 months, in in the yellow house in California, as the investigation into my father intensified.

I only remember that some time after I decided I would change my name every day. Names had lost their permanence. When Mom and Dad divorced, I was only four, not old enough to see how unhappy Mom had been; all I could see was that she made Dad leave, and now Dad was heartbroken and alone, and I took his side.

I remember asking Mom why I felt so sad all the time, and she told me I was heartbroken. I said if this was what it felt like, I never wanted to fall in love. At the same time as worrying about my flat chest and first kiss, I also worried about the two shadowy men who started following us home from school and the click on the phone that meant they were listening.

We lived in a state of quiet anxiety. Lucia where we were visiting him in hiding. He was standing on the side of the road with a sports bag thrown over his shoulder, waving goodbye in the dusty pink morning. They found him not long after. Almost exactly two years later, I was waiting to see him in prison, and from the child I was then, I had grown up, cropped my hair short and dyed it black.

I felt like a completely different girl. In the run-up to that first visit I had projected myself into cinematic showdowns with Dad.

I would tell him that he had lost the right to act like my father, because if he really loved us then he would never have let this happen. He would never have let us be separated like this. In my year-old logic it was as simple as that. Dad was there waiting and he smiled when he saw us. He looked so much smaller than the dad I remembered and so much older.

His hair was grayer than before and thinner at the top. He had been in prison for less than two years and already he was shrinking. I was scared the dad I knew might disappear completely. Me, 13, in , in the garden at home in Bath around the time of my first prison visit to dad.

He pulled Caitlin and me in for a hug — he made the same happy growling noise he had always made — and any resolve I had to be angry fell away.

We found a picnic table outside, and as we spoke, I tried to see no further than the space between his eyes and mine, beyond which the reality of prison guards with guns and barbed wire and the slow passing of time was impossible to avoid. Lunch rolled around and we ate microwaved honey-roasted turkey burgers from the vending machine.

With the sun high in the sky, Dad put his coat over my shoulders, worried my arms were going to get burned, and gave me a little squeeze. A guard came over and told him to remove his jacket from the visitor. He removed his jacket. He hung his head, visibly deflated.

I saw then how much he was struggling to narrow the space between the father he had been to me and the man he was now, reduced by his incarceration, and I wanted so much to make that struggle easier for him. Eventually, the conversation slowed to silence, and all that passed between us was the gentle traffic of the shuffling cards as we played gin rummy.

At the end of the next game, Dad put the cards to one side. He looked at each of us in turn and then, speaking carefully, he began: He turned back to us. During these years, I was also growing up, learning to accept my parents as mistake-making people no different than myself, and to see the choices he had made in terms more shaded than black and white. It would take longer still before I forgave him, but those stories over microwaved honey-roasted turkey burgers inside a prison visiting pen were the start.

There was the dad I knew from before Scotland Yard turned up in our life, the dad of late-night movies and chocolate milk before bed; and there was the faraway father of those fugitive years; and then there was this new dad, who I was yet to know, going by his real name for the first time in my life, finally taking the steps he needed to put his past behind us.

Why guys hide their feelings

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4 Comments

  1. If you do, it will be much stronger when he decides he wants to be with you again, and it will feel much better for both of you.

  2. Dad had sent my sister, Caitlin, and me instructions before we flew over to California from England where we lived with our mother. And yeah, of course, guys want sex, so if you think that sex is the only bargaining chip you have then you will always feel paranoid about men using you.

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