We All Need A Coping Mechanism

The Absurdity of Writing as Emotional Release. An Essay for the Emotionally Constipated (well, me, actually)

Let’s skip the pretense: I write because the alternative is worse. Not for healing, not for insight—just to keep the madness on a leash. When life caves in, I don’t pray or meditate. I open a Word doc, glare at the cursor like it just insulted my mother, and bleed onto the page in Times New Roman.

They say writing helps. It doesn’t. It’s not catharsis—it’s containment. A ritual of futility where grief is spell-checked and despair double-spaced. I write not to understand but to make the chaos look intentional. My wife, the shrink, calls this “processing.” I call it bargaining—with syntax.

I sit here, latte in hand, composing trauma haikus, pretending nouns can hold back the void. They can’t. But they’re all I’ve got. Words don’t heal. They organize the wreckage just enough to walk through it without tripping.

So yes, I write. In rage, in terror, in absurdity. Because if I must suffer, I might as well give it a title.

Chapter 1: The Shrinking Universe of Male Relevance
Upon hearing the words “prostate cancer,” I naturally did what any self-respecting man would do: I Googled it at 3 a.m. in my underwear, flanked by snacks and panic. What I discovered, apart from horrifying life expectancy charts and smiling men holding salad, was this: apparently, one’s entire masculine identity is now tethered to a gland the size of a walnut. A walnut. An evolutionary afterthought that, when inflamed, can take down the whole circus tent. This realization has unhinged me. If my walnut is faulty, what else is next? Will my spleen stage a rebellion? Will my pancreas join a union?

But don’t worry, there’s a brochure for that. Right on the cover: two beaming, wrinkle-free people in pastel polos, riding a tandem bike with perfect posture, straight spines, and not a diaper in sight—proof that denial comes with a glossy finish.

Chapter 2: Death by Side Effect, or: “The ADT Tango”
And then there’s Androgen Deprivation Therapy, which sounds like a Victorian punishment for lustful thoughts, but is actually far worse: a chemical lobotomy that robs you of testosterone, ambition, thigh muscle, and occasionally, the will to live. I am now an emotional soup. I cry during dog food commercials. I mourn my libido like a dead uncle. My nipples itch ominously. My wife, formerly married to a stoic man of few words, now shares a house with a sniffling, bloated philosopher prone to muttering things like “Is this real or am I just a hormone hallucination?” while staring at a toaster.

But don’t worry, there’s a brochure for that. Right on the cover: two beaming, wrinkle-free people in pastel polos, riding a tandem bike with perfect posture, straight spines, and not a diaper in sight—proof that denial comes with a glossy finish.

Chapter 3: The Existential Weight of PSA Scores
The PSA test, as you may know, is a numerical representation of one’s worth as a man. Some men use stock tickers. I use my PSA log. One decimal point up, and I’m planning my funeral playlist. One decimal point down, and I consider buying pants with zippers again. My wife tried to take away the PSA app on my phone. I bit her. (Figuratively.) Now she simply nods sympathetically while quietly Googling “how long does ADT last” and “legal options for psychiatric emancipation from spouse.”

But don’t worry, there’s a brochure for that. Right on the cover: two beaming, wrinkle-free people in pastel polos, riding a tandem bike with perfect posture, straight spines, and not a diaper in sight—proof that denial comes with a glossy finish.

Chapter 4: The Psychological Toll of Radiological Fashion
There is nothing more undignified than lying pantsless in a radiation machine while being told to keep your bladder "comfortably full and your bowels completely empty." What is that even supposed to mean? Comfortably full is a myth. So is completely empty. You're either brimming like Niagara or parched like a camel. There is no golden middle ground. My wife, ever the pragmatist, says things like “just drink when you’re told and pee when you’re told.” And I, being the dramatic prostate pilgrim that I am, reply: “I am not a man. I am a vessel. A urinal with eyebrows.”

But don’t worry, there’s a brochure for that. Right on the cover: two beaming, wrinkle-free people in pastel polos, riding a tandem bike with perfect posture, straight spines, and not a diaper in sight—proof that denial comes with a glossy finish.

Chapter 5: On Mortality, Mood Swings, and Marital Diplomacy
Cancer is supposed to make you appreciate life. In theory. In reality, I now obsess over:
• Whether my radiation is secretly microwaving my dignity.
• If the oncologist was subtly mocking my underwear.
• Whether “sexual function may return” is code for “you might twitch slightly during a rerun of Murder, She Wrote.”
My wife, the one sane character in this opera, vacillates between gentle reassurance and the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s watched their husband argue with a bidet. She married a man. She now lives with a sentient therapy pamphlet.\

But don’t worry, there’s a brochure for that. Right on the cover: two beaming, wrinkle-free people in pastel polos, riding a tandem bike with perfect posture, straight spines, and not a diaper in sight—proof that denial comes with a glossy finish.

The Absurd is Real, and It Has Side Effects
This whole affair is absurd. Not tragically absurd. Just weirdly, hilariously, cosmically absurd. A Kafkaesque farce wherein I, the main character, worry less about death and more about groin sweat, bloodwork fonts, and why the radiation tech calls me “chief” every morning.

And so, dear reader—fellow warrior, long-suffering spouse, or random internet user—you now know the truth: The worst part of prostate cancer isn’t always the cancer. It’s the fact that you’re still alive enough to worry about things so magnificently stupid.

But don’t worry, there’s a brochure for that. Right on the cover: two beaming, wrinkle-free people in pastel polos, riding a tandem bike with perfect posture, straight spines, and not a diaper in sight—proof that denial comes with a glossy finish.

And that, truly, is the triumph.
Appendix A:
My Wife’s Coping Mechanisms (A Brief List):
1. Eye-rolling at Olympic level.
2. Secret online shopping.
3. Whispering “for better or worse” through gritted teeth.
4. Occasional vodka.

But don’t worry, there’s a brochure for that. Right on the cover: two beaming, wrinkle-free people in pastel polos, riding a tandem bike with perfect posture, straight spines, and not a diaper in sight—proof that denial comes with a glossy finish.