Spray

The words aren't coming today for some reason.

Is there a difference between "strong" and "tough"?

Thesaurus.com says they're synonyms. Mental, physical, emotional. Able to bear up under great weights. Of great moral power, firmness, or courage.

I was called strong once. Twice, actually, and I didn't understand either time: once when I told a close friend that our friendship had to stop where it stood, and once by my adopted grandfather who had seen death and war and hell on earth and still saw something resilient in me. I didn't get it. I still don't. What's so strong about sitting on the edge of a couch sharing Reese cups with an old man? What's so strong about lying face-down on your bed shoving the comforting arm of God away after you've told a dear friend "no more"?

Strong people aren't supposed to feel remorse. Tough people aren't supposed to be bogged down by their emotions.

But seriously: is there a difference between "strong" and "tough"?

My mom used to tell me to "be tough" when she would brush, curl, untangle, de-gum, ponytail the mass of hair that hung to my waist until I was eight. Gingers have scientifically-proven more tender scalps than people with other hair colors, and I would fuss and fidget when she would rake a comb through the huge wad of red. She would say "be tough," and I knew to grit my teeth and not make a sound until she was done.

"Be tough" as the nurse sticks the needle into your arm.

"Be tough" as your dad wraps gauze around the elbow you've just shredded on the driveway.

"Being tough" didn't make the pain go away. The shot still hurt, the wound still stung, the hairbrush still yanked. But you set your face, shut your eyes, clenched your fists, dug in your toes until you were released.

Maybe it's the attitude you assume while you do either of those things. Or maybe it's how much you keep your true feelings hidden. "Strong" is a state of mind, a state of action: preparing for a funeral trip, watching solemnly as they lower your grandmother's urn into the ground, soaking your mother's tears into your shirt, smiling at the dying man around a mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter, not making eye contact with your melting uncles as their strength gives out, cheering with the rest of the crowd when your friends march across that graduation platform.

"Tough" is the facade so you don't add to a bad situation.

Wearing sunglasses in the Florida sunshine as an excuse to keep your tears to yourself.

Waiting until you're face-down in the rain to scream.

Locking your door and shoving the pillow in your mouth so the girls in the hallway won't hear you cry.

Waiting until your roommate is in the shower to grieve the change of your lives.

Sitting against a tree in the dark begging God to tell you what's wrong with you.

Wanna know a secret?

Being tough gets old after a while.

Eventually the countdown on your dorm room door will come down with twenty-nine days left because you're so scared to think how soon your life will change.