When people ask, “How are you?” how often are you truly honest with your response? Do you allow yourself a moment to pause and really think about how you’re doing, or has the conditioning of our culture created automated responses to maintain an illusion of normalcy? I say this because I’ve been asked this question a lot in the last week, and I’ve thought a lot about my answers. Mostly, I responded with “I don’t have an answer to that question.” I am feeling a great many things, and my body is tired from balancing what it needs to feel and returning my focus to the present. So, I don’t really know how I’m doing, but I don’t presently fit into what would be classified as “okay.” Because a lot has happened in the last week, and it’s not okay. We’re not okay, and I think we do more for each other than we know when we tell each other the truth.
I recognize and am sensitive to the reality that not every space is safe, and not every person can be trusted with the truth of your pain, therefore we cannot always be honest about how we’re really doing. But in the spaces where we have created a home, and a community, it is crucial that we tell each other the truth. I could try to come up with some eloquent and poetic words to describe the liberatory sensation of being authentically unwell around people who are safe, and kind, and want you around even if you feel sad. But for the sake of telling the truth, I have a hard time concentrating when my depression flares up, and words are hard right now. But what I would like to do is share a story from when I was in a psychiatric hospital in 2017.
By the time I had gone through the five-hour intake process, it was 2:00am. I was starving and they gave me a sandwich and one of those cups of juice with the foil on top. I quietly walked through the dark hallway in my grippy hospital socks until I was put into a room for the night. There I was, in my mid-twenties, with little knowledge of psychiatric hospitals other than how they had been represented in films. I didn’t know who else was on that floor with me, locked behind these doors, until morning.
The next day, I was sitting by myself in the cafeteria eating my hospital food, when a group of other patients came over to sit with me. Their icebreaker question was “What are you in for?” with an assuring smile. It’s hard to explain how that moment affected me, but I don’t know if I had ever felt so human. That night we got together to play a game. We tried to play BS, but none of us felt like lying to each other. So, we played Sorry, and we each took turns talking about how we had ended up in that hospital, what medications we had been on, unresolved traumas, self-harm, and addiction. No one batted an eye, or looked away, or tried to make it better. I had never in my life spoken so freely about my mental health history, nor had I ever been so welcomed by others who shared their stories. I have been told that I am known for my ability to speak so freely about my mental health, but that has not always been the case. It began that night over a board game. I have a tattoo of a Sorry game piece on my right forearm, and it’s for them, and for what they gave me.
All this is to say, tell each other the truth. If you’re angry right now, or devastated, confused, not sleeping, not eating healthy, feel like crying, or screaming, you can tell the truth. Because when we, as a community, know, we can check in, we can remind each other to eat, we can send each other funny memes, and cute animal pictures. You were never meant to carry your worries in isolation. The first step is to tell the truth, maybe then we can love each other a little better.
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