The Overshare of Vulnerability

I recently tearfully (and a little snottily) finished Donald Miller's book Scary Close. In it, he effortlessly chronicles his journey of coming to grips with the fact that he was often being fake and that it had an effect on his relationships, to sum it up in a less moving and insightful way than his pages do. Miller is a writer I greatly admire, in part for a reason he himself notes in that book: he's good at being vulnerable. The way he described it, I could relate. I won't claim to be as eloquent or talented a writer, but I get the vulnerability thing.

Sometimes I make people uncomfortable, - well, okay, I think often times - with my vulnerability. However I've noticed something that matters to me far more than the comfort of those it bothers, it helps the walls between the others of us come down. It's exactly what Miller's book is about, too. I cried through the entire last quarter of the book because he precisely hits the mark. We need vulnerability to have deep relationships, and we need it to get through the walls to have those deep relationships.

Sure, vulnerability is scary; it involves risk, but somehow we've built our social understanding of vulnerability to equate weakness. Another writer I'm learning to love is Brene Brown, a social worker and doctor of psychology who has long studied the interactions of people. She has written entire books on the power of vulnerability and owning your story. As I've been slowly reading her latest, Rising Strong, I'm also often crying or shouting a resounding "yes" of agreement to the proverbial heavens, hoping somehow wherever she is she'll know I needed this validation.

See, I'm naturally a pretty soft, squishy "feelings person" - as I like to say, - always have been. Growing up as a youngest child my siblings didn't get it, so I was often criticized and teased for being "overly sensitive." Maybe rightfully so, I'll never know, but either way their callousness helped thicken my skin a lot. Thank God, too, because people are mean; bosses are mean, middle-school girls are mean, ex-best friends are mean, customers at a coffee shop are mean! So over the years I learned to toughen up and not let it eat away at me, while at the core there's still that sensitive little girl who doesn't want to suffer at the carelessness of others.

Fast forward and, for most of my adult life, that has translated to being unapologetically me: openly sensitive and yet not a punching bag. I'll be honest, I'm still learning but much of that resulted in being a fiery defender of the underdog or raging against inconsiderate injustices (that would've been a mouthful of a band name). I'm passionate. And while I know I have to rein that in sometimes, I'm still not ashamed of it. I'm also not ashamed to be truthful. I place a high value on truth and honesty, partially because I've started to see through people and through the meanness - I don't mean that judgmentally. It seems everyone has a scared being inside them that they want to hide from the world. The sad thing about that is, it's usually the part of them with the most to offer. How can you be your best self if you don't even allow the world to see your true self? This is now what I get criticized for: being too open. Because I'm not afraid to share much, I obviously am sharing too much. This is of course usually decided by those who don't like risking an ounce in vulnerability their self.

I have been going through a shitstorm (sorry if that word bothers you, it's about the only word that seems sufficient) in the past few months - and guess why: I was vulnerable and it hurt, big time. There's no way to say it without sounding mushy or sappy, but I loved and it failed me. Without even fully realizing it, while holding back on admitting it - thinking that'd actually protect me - I put my heart all in and lost out.

I took some time and thought about it. It was a slow start, but I wasn't about to hide my pain from the world as if there were shame to loving deeply and with great hope. I had no idea how I could possibly maintain a semi-normal life and wade through the grief I felt. I also knew that there is power in vulnerability; power in stating that life is sometimes downright painful and ugly, and it can be hard to get out of bed, simply because you risked and lost, and the disappointment is a heavy load. That should be incredibly relate-able, but we shame vulnerability. Still, my goal was to be real, as it always has been.

I wanted to share my story, because I thought even though some may judge my honesty and openness, maybe even look down on me for it assuming a lack of self-control - I thought some people may need this. Some of us need to know we aren't the only person in the world who has had the days where it's difficult to get out of bed. You aren't the only one that's scared to try to love again, want to love again. You aren't the only one crying in the bathroom at work and avoiding eye-contact with passersby on return.

Turns out I was right, at least a few times. I had people thank me for being brave, because they felt shamed when they had pain and they felt alone because of it. I can't help but think how much we could change the game if we were just honest, not brutally so, but truthfully - if we were real with one another. What if we stopped being so concerned someone would think less of us because we're human and it hurts to be sometimes? Maybe through all of these gushing words over these weeks and months I have only helped a few people wipe clear the shame of their pain; maybe only a few people learned something about how to address someone in pain, but I think that's worth it.

My good friend said to me just recently, Vulnerability begets vulnerability. She's incredibly right. I've seen that when I am real about my struggles, others breathe easily around me, and in their exhales share their struggles in return. And when I encounter someone who is open to a fault, I feel more comfortable with them than all the perfect instagram friends I know.

So I won't apologize for being vulnerable, or "too open", if you want to call it that. I won't stop, either. Facing a fear could be viewed as reckless, or it could be touted as courageous, so I'm going to keep pushing to change the landscape, even if only around me by starting with my own open book.

Shapeshifter

I feel like what we were is morphing in memory, a shape shifter; sometimes something beautiful, sometimes something maddening. And my heart strings are woven through that object, slowly wearing down as it changes and moves and alters. Was it always this way? Maybe it was, and it was always fated to fray the strings and, eventually, inevitably disintegrate - though that part is yet to be proven. That is just my pessimistic prediction, as I emerge from the Dark, Dark Place, a little jaded.

Home

The thing is, I never wanted to be in love more than once. I'd never wanted to want to marry more than one person. I've always known that if I make that decision, it will be it. I went into it, not thinking it'd be it, but searching out if it could be. In all the textbook ways (and I mean, really trained not stereotypical, romanticized ways) it relationally had what it takes [to go the distance, as they say]. Neither of us are perfect, of course, - I've never heard of such a couple - but together it was good. I couldn't have imagined getting along with a guy I was dating so well (mostly because everyone says what hard work it is), but so it was. It didn't take long for being with him to feel comfortable and safe and warm, like home. So I struggle to let go of wanting to go home - to think about making home somewhere else.

Maybe it just takes time. It has, after all, healed me of my Dark, Dark Place and is healing me of my weakness and insecurities. Maybe time, too, will smooth over my longing for things to just return to comfort and ease.

In one of my favorite films, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, there's a clinic for ex-lovers to erase one another from memory. Only hangup is Joel grapples with the decision to remove Clementine while the process is taking place. Similarly, I'm not convinced I want time to heal me of missing "home". I grapple with feeling as though really, I can't imagine finding someone I feel that way with; have that connection with. And yet, several big things in my life would drastically change to be with him. So I am, within myself, at a stand still. A stalemate, if you will, of the head and the heart. I just want to be home, but I'm not sure it can be my home anymore. Saving grace is that the pain of having settled into it as such, as home, has decreased and is decreasing. Yet, the desire to go there remains.

If I'm honest, a part of me is confused: should you be able to want to make more than one person in life your person? You've certainly heard the saying, "The heart wants what it wants." Well, I wonder, if my heart ever wants anyone else again, could it even be true? So it must be, that lifelong commitment is not simply a matter of the heart, but a decision; to dive in together, for life, in love. But I fear if I love another, it won't make this love any less a part of my life, rather it will just be a different choice. I never wanted that, to go the opposite direction my heart was.

I've been reading Donald Miller's Scary Close, and in it he says:

To hear her voice and smell her hair and remember half the feeling of home is usually a person.

You know, in the end of the movie (spoiler alert), Clem & Joel meet again after they've mutually erased one another. They're drawn to each other again, and with the fear that history will simply repeat staring them in the face, they stare back and decidedly say, "Okay."

I quietly wonder, what will we say?