Speak Your Truth: Then Duck

This title may be somewhat misleading, and possibly intentionally so, but not in a malicious way. I just got a kick out of this title when it popped into my head. I then realized it may make people think this is an article about traditional relationships and speaking truth to a spouse, significant other, boss, and then something gets thrown across the room or the car, like a sandwich. I am not saying I know of such a specific scenario, but I'm not saying I don't either.

These titles come to me somewhat out of the blue, not unlike when I am done with a painting and then the name for the painting just sort of appears in my mind. Often, I will have an idea for an article in my head for some time. In the case of this article, I think the seeds have been there for a couple of years, but the thoughts and ruminations will come and go until it is time for the idea to be written. Again, very much like when I paint. I will have an idea, or image, or technique I want to try, and then eventually it is just time. This article, or at least the idea of this article, has been in my head for a while, but the title just popped up a couple of days ago. It popped into my head, I wrote it down, shared it with my editor, and we both really liked it, and then a few minutes after I sent it the thought of a sandwich being thrown in the car followed, and then I wasn't sure it would be a good idea because of the possible image it may create. In the end I liked the title too much, and I knew it would give me a good excuse to explain.

Again, I am not saying I do or do not know for certain of a sandwich-throwing incident in a car, or at least I am choosing to plead the Fifth, and no, I am not going to go any farther with that reference to the current third rail of politics.

The other thing I thought of at about three o'clock this morning when I woke up thinking about this article and briefly considered getting up to write then—I am extremely glad I didn't!—was the movie Shakespeare in Love. I obviously haven't seen it in a very long time, as it was released over twenty-five years ago, but I have always loved the scene when Shakespeare goes down the stairs to a pub and sits down at the bar in the basement where his writer friend Marlowe is sitting. They have a brief discussion about what each is working on, and I believe Marlowe utters the title of his current work, to which Shakespeare very simply replies, "Good title." I am sure I am misremembering much, but the basic gist of the scene is something I have thought about often over the years: the title is critical.

I don't know how true this all is today in the film world when inevitably producers put together a trailer that will capture and captivate audiences enough so they will say to themselves, "Oh, I can't wait to see that," and so the title may not matter as much. It is unfortunate because it seems more and more the movies come out and the only truly captivating scenes existed in the trailer, and the movie around those scenes doesn't hold up, but I have drifted way far afield.

Here is the truth in the title I chose. This is a piece about relationships and speaking truth, but just not necessarily only spousal- or significant-other-focused. In the realm of Unpacking, and as I continue down the path to this collection of essays regarding mental health, mental illness, grief, "unpacking," and the journey through all of it, I have seen, heard, and experienced firsthand a great deal relative to how people around us react to this journey.

And it is not so much the journey itself, but the sharing of it, being open about it, that can change so much for everyone involved.

One of the loneliest places I have ever been wasn't a mountaintop or an empty beach. Two places I have always loved! It was a coffee shop filled with people. I met with the same group almost every Saturday morning for nearly a decade. I cared about them, respected them, and considered them friends. Then anxiety became part of my life, and eventually I stopped pretending everything was okay. I shared what was really going on. Looking back, I don't think anyone intended to hurt me. In fact, I think most genuinely wanted to help. But wanting to help and knowing how to help are two very different things. Over time I found myself sitting in that same coffee shop, surrounded by people I had known for years, feeling as lonely as I have ever felt in my life. I have stood alone on mountaintops listening to the wind whisper through the trees as the sun slipped toward the horizon, and there was peace and serenity in that solitude. Sitting in that coffee shop was the opposite. I wasn't alone, but somehow I had never felt more alone, invisible.

One of the hardest parts of this journey has been discovering that people often mean what they say until they discover what your truth actually is. More than once I have been told, "You can talk to me about anything." Those words are offered with kindness, and I believe they are almost always sincere. But there is a difference between imagining someone's struggle and living alongside it. When I actually took people up on that invitation, some stayed. Some tried. Some slowly backed away. Some ran like the wind. I don't blame them as much as I once did. It doesn't mean I've stopped grieving their absence. Mental illness is heavy, and not everyone is equipped to carry even a small part of someone else's burden. That understanding, however, doesn't erase the loneliness that comes when someone you trusted quietly disappears.

There are a lot of people, so-called experts, out there saying that "you have to be willing to be vulnerable," and "you must speak your truth," and I agree with this sentiment, obviously, or you wouldn't be reading this article right now, but what those out there espousing being vulnerable and honest aren't saying is that when you speak your truth to the universe, or at least your universe, the universe may not be prepared for it, and may not respond in the manner you would hope, expect, or need.

I actually just thought of a somewhat simple parallel. Just before all the anxiety issues popped up in my life, one of the contributing factors I now know was stopping a medication I had literally been taking for twenty-five years. My then doctor, whom I have since fired—if you've read any of my stuff you can guess why—kept saying, "I really want you to consider stopping this med." He said this every time I saw him. He kept telling me he was worried about the "long-term effects." Really, long term? I had been taking this medication for twenty-five years. How much longer term can there be? The parallel to me is that never once in this conversation did he mention the possible long-term withdrawal effects that have been very well documented, as I have now heard from multiple doctors. It was all about stopping the med, and nothing about the possible consequences of doing so.

The same is absolutely true of "be vulnerable," and "you must speak your truth." I totally agree that it is good to do so, and I wouldn't necessarily undo any of what I have done, shared, or written through this process, but I do want to make sure people understand the plethora of possible outcomes.

Here is the reality: people may say "speak your truth," but they may not actually be ready for your particular truth. The reality of mental illness, in whatever forms it manifests for people—and it is definitely different for every single person and their particular journey—is that it is not pretty. It is difficult, heavy, intense, morose. Pick your word, or words, and most people just can't handle these types of truths.

There are people who can absolutely handle these conversations and everything associated with them, at least to an extent and in certain doses. There are people who absolutely want to be able to have these conversations and handle the reality, but then discover they can't. There are people who will say they want to hear your truth, but then run for the hills. Where I live, it's actually the foothills, and there are people who, I guess thankfully, just simply say, "No thanks," probably not literally, but that is the end result.

I get all of those responses, I really do, because dealing with mental illness is not fun, but imagine what it is like for the person on the journey that has to deal with this truth twenty-four hours a day. It is relentless, and it is a process, and for those dealing with mental illness they do everything they can every day, all day long, to manage their illness, their symptoms, and to live as "normal" a life as possible, but it is grueling. To use a grossly overused phrase, mainly to poke fun at those who overuse it, it is a constant grind.

The example I spoke of briefly last week that works perfectly for describing the constant management, and debate, that goes into this journey, is my trip to Sun Valley last week. I love it up there, and I know that. I also love to drive, all else being equal, but when you consider the uncertainty of anxiety, and anxiety attacks, and the fact that it takes almost three hours to get to Sun Valley, plus other physical issues I have been dealing with as well, the question is never do I want to go—I do! The question is, can I get myself to go, and if I do go, can I get myself through the drive? The entire "journey," duplicate use of the word absolutely intended, becomes a nonstop negotiation between the part of me that really prefers to be there for a few days rather than here, and the part of me that is now afraid of my shadow.

I am very fortunate to have amazing sisters who definitely want to be there for this journey, and want to hear my truth, whether they always hear me or not. I know they want to. I am also fortunate to have a few really good friends that have been around for a long time and seem to be with me on this journey as well.

I have also experienced a significant combination of the other reactions I mentioned above, and it has taken a long time to figure out how to deal with those reactions and be okay. It is not as simple as most would like it to be when they say things like, "Their reaction is not about you." While that statement is, in most cases, very much true, it does not take the sting away from people actively backing away, reaching out far less frequently, or even removing themselves completely. It is easy enough, logically and intellectually, to understand that people's reactions are primarily about their own issues or shortcomings in dealing with such difficult topics, but knowing that does not remove the pain and hurt and grief that come along with losing someone you thought of as a dear friend or family member.

A lot of what is above some would say, "Well, that is just the nature of life," and that may very well be, but for those struggling with depression, anxiety, and grief, "normal" parts of life are not normal anymore, and managing or accepting the reaction of family and friends to what they are going through is just a much more difficult hill to climb.

I said from the very beginning, when I first started sharing these articles, that if sharing them could help just one other person, then it was worth doing. As I have continued to do so I have gone from it is "worth" doing to it is my "obligation" to do so. This may seem like a subtle difference, but for me it's not. I know I am no Hemingway or Shakespeare, or insert your favorite writer here, but I also know that I fortunately have been given the ability to write, and it is something I both enjoy doing and that I know helps me process these thoughts that constantly rattle around in my brain, and thus to not share what I write with anyone that may possibly be helped, even just ever so slightly, would be selfish of me.

For this piece especially, I am hoping it finds its way to those that have someone in their lives dealing with mental illness and maybe helps them better understand what their friend, family member, or loved one is going through. I have said this many times, and will say it as often as possible: mental illness is NOT a choice. People cannot simply choose to be happy and be happy. They cannot simply will anxiety away. There are things we can all do that we know help us to manage these feelings, this illness, but we cannot simply wake up one morning and wish them away. Trust me, I've tried, pretty much every morning.

Sometimes the bravest thing isn't speaking your truth. Sometimes it's choosing to stay after someone else has spoken theirs.