Of Course, It’s Scary to Be Vulnerable

Being vulnerable can be terrifying. We live in a society that operates on selective truth disguised as authenticity. Social media, specifically, enables us to conceal the parts of ourselves we want to conceal while highlighting the parts of ourselves we want to highlight. We can spend hours crafting a post and perfecting the narrative around our lives and experiences. 

Real-time does not afford us that luxury. Real interactions capture your first responses, gut reactions, facial expressions, and nuances in tone as they happen. When you tell someone your truth in person, you can’t alter your narrative preemptively, and you have to accept their initial reaction. To relent that control, to be raw and real about your experiences in a given moment without the ability to edit, delete, or hit backspace and reword things, takes a great deal of courage.

Anxiety, Depression, and Me

The first time I really felt the deep fear of total vulnerability was during my sophomore year of college. I began struggling with anxiety, depression, and self-harm in a way that was new to me. I had struggled with depression and anxiety in high school as well, without having a clinical name for it, but it had never infiltrated my life with as much constant intensity as it did in college.

The intrusive thoughts I was experiencing were paralyzing. They got in the way of conversations with friends, becoming louder than the actual conversation. I would become infuriated at my brain for pulling me away from the moment. I tried to cope by doing short and repetitive actions mid-conversation to move my mind away from suicidality and focus on the other person, like swirling my fingers on my knees or pulling feathers out of couch pillows. Focus. Be here. Focus. Be here.

It became impossible to do the tasks that I needed to get through the day. Opening my email, going to class, getting dressed, going to social events, and finishing schoolwork all became insurmountable and fell to the wayside at the mercy of my racing brain. I felt separate from the world. I felt separate from myself. I became apathetic and out of touch with my favorite aspects of my personality. I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my entire life.

I knew I needed more help than I was getting, but I was terrified of what seeking help meant. Seeking help meant being honest about my thoughts and feelings to those who cared about me, which didn’t feel like something I was willing to do.

I think I was most afraid of destroying the idea others had of who I was or giving loved ones the impression that these thoughts encompassed the new me as opposed to just being something I was dealing with. I was afraid of tainting their perception that I was good and right with heavy thoughts and feelings that felt bad, dark, and wrong.

Ripping Off the Band-Aid

I started with just one person I felt most comfortable talking to. They weren’t my best friend or even a friend from my closest circle. I think the main reason I went to this person, in particular, had a lot to do with his lack of preconceived notions of me and his openness to paradoxes.

There was an understanding that I could be simultaneously suicidal and in love with life, anxious at a micro-level and at peace at a macro-level, deeply lonely and surrounded by cherished friends. His understanding that the individual feelings and thoughts I was describing were not an all-encompassing picture of me or my identity gave me room to talk openly. I didn’t need to cater my narrative to his particular perception of who I was.

After ripping off the Band-Aid, I was able to talk about my struggles with other friends and family members as well. The conversations I feel most understood in are some of the least articulate and least conclusive. When I am able to hand my loved ones a neat package tied in a bow to describe my struggles with mental illness, that is when I know my words have fallen short. It’s the people who I toss a magnifying glass and flashlight to, who follow my lead as I say, “Come on in, join me, let’s walk around in this abyss together”, that I feel I have been most understood by.

Over time, talking openly about my struggles with anxiety and depression became less terrifying. However, my heart still races a bit each time I make the decision in my mind to talk about my experiences with someone new. Sometimes I just briefly mention depression, anxiety, or self-harm and wait for them to flinch. Vulnerability often feels like tapping on aquarium glass and seeing how fast the fish flees. Is this too much? Am I too much? Is this scaring you away?

Is Being Truthful with Loved Ones Worth It?

One huge thing I’ve taken away from talking about my experiences with so many different people is that it doesn’t have to go the same way with every single person. In fact, it almost never does. I think it’s important to keep in mind that the way someone reacts to your vulnerabilities says more about their own views and experiences than it does about what you’ve chosen to share.

They may become deeply worried about what you’ve shared. They may become sad or confused. They may have had similar experiences and thus feel inexplicably understood by you. They may try really hard to give you the most correct, most supportive response, so as not to make you feel judged. Some people, unfortunately, may even judge you.

How your loved ones react when you choose to open up to them is a reflection of their own beliefs, feelings, biases, and personal perceptions. Those are not yours to carry. When I began to understand that I could share my own truth without being responsible for the way others reacted, I began to feel infinitely freer.

I’ve also learned that, while there is a freeing power in total vulnerability, you also don’t owe anyone an explanation. Your experiences are yours to share, and you get to call the shots as to who in your life has earned the right to your truth. It won’t be everyone and that’s okay, that’s normal.

All that to say, when I look back, I can’t think of one conversation when I was open about my struggles with depression and anxiety that I regret. There is something about being willing to lay down your own pride and admit when things are difficult, scary, painful, and out of control that removes barriers and allows you to see your loved ones for who they are: Human beings who are just figuring their own mess out too.

Choosing to let my closest loved ones in on my mental struggles has allowed me to feel more known, understood, and surrounded than ever before in my life. The people I feel know me best are the ones who have walked alongside me in my struggles, who know the signs of a bad day, and who knows what I need when I’m spiraling even if I can’t articulate it myself.

That said, loved ones aren’t therapists. While they care deeply, mean well, and make wonderful lifelong teammates, friends, and family still aren’t licensed professionals. Conversations with loved ones are not meant to be any kind of replacement for seeking professional help, but they can be rocks to lean on that help carry you through a hard day, so you don’t have to do it alone.