Disclaimer: This post mentions some of my personal experience navigating mental health crises; I am not a mental health professional, and if you are in crisis, or find yourself supporting someone who is, please reach out for professional support.
Have you ever stayed silent because you were afraid to speak your mind, because you were embarrassed about something that was happening, or because it was easier to be quiet than to be right? Me too. Have you ever stayed silent when you know someone was making the wrong decision, or saying something hurtful to a peer? Though I’m not proud of it, me too. We were raised in a society where, at times, it’s easier to follow the status quo than to speak the truth. If something makes someone uncomfortable, we don’t talk about it, right? Now, let me ask you another question. Have you ever taken a moment to think about why something has made you uncomfortable? Was it the way someone said it? What was it about the content that rubbed you the wrong way?
These are questions that I’ve been asking myself more and more lately, because I am constantly striving to have a more open mind. Sometimes (more often than I would like to admit) I find myself cringing at something someone has said, or wanting to escape a conversation or shut it down. I’ll hear something on a radio station and want to change the channel. What I have realized, though, is that this is usually because I am under-informed about what is being talked about. I think that people tend to shy away from what they don’t understand. Is there really anything so wrong with talking about sex, talking about drugs, talking about periods or health problems, or failure? Is there something so wrong about talking about our own privilege, admitting we have weaknesses, or that we just don’t like something (whether it’s someone, your mother’s favourite recipe, or that major you’re trying to stick out)? Is it so damn hard for us to say that we believe in ourselves… for us to advocate for ourselves, and our own needs? I will be the first to admit that sometimes these conversations make me extremely uncomfortable. But the more I educate myself, the more I find that I want to be a part of the discussion. The more I learn that this discomfort is showing me that it’s important to talk about these things. Talking about something that, culturally, you are meant to shy away from is liberating. Now, I’m obviously not advocating for the abuse of drugs or alcohol, unsafe sex, or anything that could be harmful to someone’s well-being. What I do want to point out, though, is that the foundation of an open mind is being able to sit with a little discomfort.
Something I’ve learned over the past few months, which has become one of my core beliefs, is that shame hides in silence. Sometimes, people will stay silent because they don’t want to draw attention to themselves, or they fear others’ reactions. That being said, if we don’t talk about something because it’s hard, or because we think someone will judge us or we are feeling shame, isn’t staying silent just creating this positive feedback loop? Society telling us that it’s not appropriate to talk about something creates the shame. I want a world where my children, their children, and their children’s children can be themselves, yes. But I want that world now. Call me idealistic, but I don’t want to have to wait a generation for change. I want the people I love to be able to marry no matter how they identify. I want my friends to know that they won’t be fired for their self-harm scars. I want a world where I know that people can access the resources they need, and the choice between living and dying will not be at the hands of a government leader, signing away people’s rights. And I really do believe that we can make this change, not 20 years from now, but right now. It won’t be easy, but nothing ever is.
I think that everyone has experienced, at least to some extent, the comfort that comes from a “me too” moment. Whether that is I have no clue how to do this assignment either, a friend’s knowing glance when you both want to leave that party, or the “me too” of speaking about your anxiety, depression, eating disorder, or self-harm for the first time with people who truly “get it”. But, none of these moments would happen if people didn’t talk about things that make them uncomfortable. I know it’s hard to do – heck, I saw the same psychologist for a year before I would believe her about my diagnosis. But it’s still important.
It is so important to talk about the uncomfortable stuff, because that’s how we learn. There is some truth to the Dad motto of “adversity builds character”. When we deal with difficult stuff, we learn just a little bit more about the world, and about ourselves. Some people would say that I overshare. And you know what? Maybe that’s true. But I would so much rather be open about what I’m going through, and lay everything out on the table, than keep it hidden inside my heart, letting my secrets become shame, and letting my shame chip away at every piece of me.
There will always be uncomfortable conversations. No one wants to tell someone that their skirt is tucked into their tights. No one wants to say that they made a mistake. No one wants to call someone else out on their sh*t, but it’s so important. Because at the end of the day, we all need to learn what it means to be human. I believe that if we are honest about our needs, goals, and expectations, we will show others that they can be honest too. That’s how we create a connection.
What’s more, sometimes uncomfortable conversations not only change lives, but they save them. I will never forget the first time I had to talk to someone about suicide. When I was 16, one of my closest friends sat me down and told me about their recent suicide attempt. I wouldn’t even say this conversation made me uncomfortable, more that it made me very scared. I wasn’t judging this person, but I really just didn’t understand. I had never experienced a mental health challenge myself, and it just terrified me that I didn’t recognize any of the signs. So many “what if”s started running through my head, and I just wish I could have had this conversation sooner, to help support this individual through their pain. This person told me not to tell any of my friends and family, so I didn’t. I wish I had told this individual that, yes, their story was safe with me, but that talking about it isn’t shameful. This is a regret I still have to this day.
I will never forget the first time I did a suicide intervention. I was 17, had just moved away from home, and had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was that I wanted this person to be safe. All I knew was that I had to ask that hard question. In my mind, in that moment, there was no alternative. I will never forget, that same night, talking to someone whose hallucinations had them – and me – terrified. Watching the approaches of first my former RA, now friend, then the paramedics and mental health mobile crisis team, taught me a lot about my own approach to mental health crises today. It taught me that sometimes you need help supporting someone else, and that debriefing with professionals is okay. Whenever I do public speaking on the topic of mental health, there is always someone who is concerned about asking “have you considered suicide” or “have you thought of harming yourself”. I used to be too. But, trust me, asking these questions will not put that thought in another person’s head. It will just show them that you care enough to check in with them.
I will never forget the first time a friend was open with me about the source of her scars. This conversation opened my mind, and taught me that sometimes you can see someone’s struggle, and sometimes you can’t, but that the way someone chooses to cope doesn’t say anything about their strength.
I will never forget the time I was open with my friend about starting on an SSRI, how her face just lit up, and her eagerness to talk about initial side effects, what works, what doesn’t, and the stigma associated with taking medication. That conversation was freeing, and helped me really take ownership over my decision to look after my own health.
I will never forget the first time I was afraid for someone’s life. Not that they would take it, but that their shrinking frame would no longer allow them to stand upright. This was when I learned that anorexia is powerful. I will never forget the day I had to take a friend to the hospital, because an electrolyte imbalance had damaged her heart, and she was scared. This is when I learned that bulimia is all-consuming. I will never forget helping someone off of the floor of the gym, because he was trying to make it through the day without fuel. The day I learned that the girl next to me at the gym could not turn off the calculator in her head. This is when I learned that eating disorders can’t always be seen.
I will never forget the first time I, myself, was asked if I was considering suicide. Thankfully, I have never experienced suicidal thoughts, but in that moment, I was so grateful that somebody asked. Because I knew how uncomfortable it could be for someone to bring up. It meant that this person cared about me on a very human, raw, real level. This was the first step of my own journey to learn what it means to be human (my own definition, at least). For the first time, I saw that question from the receiving end.
The point is, none of these conversations were easy; they were some of the hardest ones I’ve ever had. But they also stand out as the moments in which I’ve learned the most. If we always let our discomfort and fear control our actions and conversations, we won’t really be able to support people in the way they need. I know these aren’t always life-or-death conversations. But each time someone stays silent for fear of judgement, it wears on them. It teaches them that they are wrong. I think that everyone’s opinions are valid, and that there is such a thing as a “healthy debate”. I think if we always avoided the uncomfortable conversations, we wouldn’t be able to grow as people and connect on a deeper level with those we care about. It’s our vulnerability and our ability to use our voices despite our discomfort that makes us different, and makes us strong. See if you can challenge a bit of that discomfort when talking about the hard stuff – you might be surprised what you learn. As always, I’m rooting for you.
- A
