Today I learned the difference between transparency and vulnerability.
I start this by saying that there is so much noise in my head, so I must write. If I do not, my thoughts will continue to devour me whole. There really is no place to begin or end, only that I start pouring.
Awhile ago, I wrote that I’m an idealist, a romantic, and that you should go after what you want even if it means falling on your gorgeous face. I meant every word. And so, here I am… on my bloodied face.
It hurts down here, on the floor. I’ve cried a lot, which isn’t easy to admit, but I think it’s important. Anyone who takes a risk, risks getting hurt. But the thing you have to ask yourself is if the risk was still worth it.
It was. He was.
I felt so steady with him holding my hand. I could start to feel parts of me healing — all of those parts that would scream out that I wasn’t worth much, that I didn’t deserve to be happy, and most of all, that the wayward hold of my dysfunctionally rattled immune system would be no match against his arms.
But not everyone can steady that weight. They may not have the tools, the fortitude, or the will to do so. It can feel heartbreaking, like a knife tearing into your chest.
You see, transparency is providing information. For example, “I have a health condition.” But vulnerability, she is different. She asks us to go further, courageously sharing information that someone can hurt us with. “I have a health condition… that fluctuates over time with no rhyme or reason some days. I’m in a lot of pain today and I hate that you have to watch. I don’t know when this is going to end. I have thoughts that I deserve less love in these moments, but I know that’s not true and I really look forward to when I feel better again.”
It takes immense bravery to share these types of vulnerable thoughts.
Sadly, when those thoughts aren’t met with hands that are ready to hold them, that steadiness turns into a tightrope. Sometimes, you lose that hand altogether.
Anyone with a chronic illness, especially those of us who have it reflected outwardly, it can be scary opening up to people. We get scared that if we jump, we will not be caught. So we tip toe, slowly inching in. But what I’ve learned is, a risk is a risk. Whether slowly or at full speed, timing will not matter. We just have to be brave and understand that the people we care about may realize that they can not bare the load we bring, even if the weight is out of our control.
I sit and honor the feelings I hold at the moment. I lost out on something that meant a lot to me. We each have fragile parts of us, and mine is certainly my strength. I’ve been in this game a long time. When things get too tough, the only remedy at points is someone else’s arms. Scientifically, hugs heal. Trusted company heals. Tenderness heals. I had it for such a brief spell.
I am also aware that times like these highlight a deep-seated abandonment fear that has been cultivated over the years. I’ve allowed it to play its melancholic record over and over in my mind. It’s cemented itself and I’ve got to find the chisel. I’ve got to remember that there will be someone that stays, that allows space for the parts that are still healing, that alights me with kisses to calm my overactive nerves and coaxes the fire within myself to release the negative thoughts rooted inside.
Now a lot of people may think that this is solely a you job. That healing is a solo process. But, I don’t think it is. Solo work must be done, of course — as Brene Brown says, “don’t work your shit out on other people” — but I’ve met far too many couples now to see how being loved by someone, deeply seen and loved, is medicine that is necessary for healing.
When suicidal thoughts are met with devotion and empathy, healing happens.
Where swollen, crying eyes are met with forehead kisses and long embraces, healing happens.
Where vulnerability is met with grace and understanding, healing happens.
This, too, is something we need and it’s okay to say that. We are not meant to suffer alone. We deserve love during these ugly moments from hands who feel safe enough to give it.
I can never speak ill of the steady hands that held me for the briefest of seconds for they belong to someone who deserves the same amount of care they showed me. Admitting this, too, takes bravery, something I wish I could lay down at times. Being brave gets tiring. It feels like a vocation rather than a voluntary motion.
For now, I am going to take some time to mend this heart and nervous system. I feel like my body is on fire, my synapsis gone haywire with no one there beside me. They were both just learning to bring their guards down again and are now panicked that the net set below them is suddenly gone.
If you are in my boat, or have ever been, I send you love. We all deserve the love we pour out despite our health not always playing fair. And if you love or care for someone who has been touched by trauma, be gentle with them. Give them reassurance, both in words and actions, that you are there and are not going anywhere. It helps. It truly helps.
She juggles fire every single day,
forces a smile,
and laughs
at the burns.
I will never stop kissing the scars
that remain.
Tyler Knott Gregson
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