vulnerability

A few years ago, I decided with naïve finality that when faced the choice, I’d choose vulnerability over putting up walls, so help me God. I’d be honest to a fault. I’d face my real emotions and express them appropriately. I’d let people in rather than hiding away.

I’d show you the real me.

The big place I knew where I’d be showing this newfound vulnerability was that I’d write whatever I truly felt and thought and not worry about how it was received. In my day-to-day life, I don’t talk much, especially not about myself and especially not to people who don’t know me well. (Classic INFJ. Note: I’m a very good listener.) I only have this freedom while writing. So, again I made the decision that I’d write my truth and trust that I wasn’t going to be a total asshole, so let ‘er rip.

Looking back on it, I’m not sure the reasons for this fundamental decision except it felt right to me and perhaps the only decision I could make. The idea of the opposite—closing up, hiding, betraying my true self—was intolerable. And I’d spent a decade and a half hiding the fact that I wanted to be a writer. I couldn’t do it anymore.

In the early days, I spent about a month repeatedly diving under my desk to hide, scared of the reaction to my words. After a bit, once I realized not only that no one was coming after me, but also, I’d survived, I learned that I may very well continue to survive this newfound voluntary exercise in putting myself “out there.” In some ways I felt like a guy trying to pick up someone in a bar. If it didn’t work, I’d just shrug (perhaps self-consciously) and go on to the next, vehemently choosing to not let it destroy me. In other words, I didn’t die just because people knew what I really thought. Just because I wrote about sex and mental illness and swore a bit.

For a person who spent decades not telling anyone what I truly felt and hiding behind niceties, this was lifechanging. It was also radical and frightening.

And liberating. I still worried what people thought, but the difference was I didn’t let it stop me. Instead, I tried (and try) to do what Hemingway says to do: write the truest sentence that you know. That’s the only way I know it can be good—“it” being both writing and life.

But I’m coming to realize I hadn’t made a one-time decision to be vulnerable. It’s a decision I have to make over and over and over again, like deciding to get up in the morning. It’s maintenance. Similar to when I make the bed, put the dishes in the dishwasher, open the mail, I remember to be true to myself. I remember to be happy. I remember why I chose to stop hiding.

In fact, that’s one of the things I’m learning about recovery from mental illness. It’s not one and done. It’s not a conscious choice. It’s a conscious REPEATED choice.

Intentionally deciding to be vulnerable was one of those decisions that I didn’t know the extent of. (It was probably for the best that I didn’t realize what it meant at the time.) I hadn’t realized with each word I write, I would be poking my emotional wounds over and over and over again, exposing my bruised and bloody self.

But this pain doesn’t feel masochistic. Instead it makes me feel strong. I’m fiercer than I used to be. I have better perspective on my life and my place in the world. And I can do things faster and with less angst. Like speak (write) my mind.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Every time I write one of these posts, I’m scared. Meaning, right this moment—literally—I’m scared of opening up this Word document and typing these words. And don’t get me started on the fears with publishing, where there is the potential for someone actually reading them.

I’m not even sure I can articulate what I’m scared of. Perhaps that no one will connect with it? Or more basically, what will [fill in the blank] think if they knew what I really thought? Will they like me? Do I care?

And I’m coming to learn that I may never be over this fear. I just face it repeatedly and notice that some days it’s duller and some days sharper. The key is to not allow it to be crippling.

I’m fully aware that in writing this, some of you may yawn and think what’s the big deal? After all, saying what you mean seems to be easy for many. (Those people tend to be my heroes, the fearless ones with confidence but not bravado.)

I guess all I’m saying is it’s not easy for me, but I’m still doing it. And my point in writing this is if there’s something in your life that isn’t easy but that your soul needs to do, you can still do it.

Because if I can do it, you can too.