“Vulnerability will not be oversharing. It’s sharing with individuals who have earned the appropriate to listen to our story.” ~Brené Brown
Earlier this 12 months, I discovered myself in a spot I by no means imagined: locked in a psychiatric emergency room, carrying a paper wristband, surrounded by strangers in seen misery. I wasn’t suicidal. I hadn’t harmed anybody. I’d merely instructed the reality—and it led me there.
What occurred started, in a manner, with writing.
I’m in my seventies, and I’ve lived a full life as a filmmaker, trainer, father, and now a caregiver for my ninety-six-year-old mom. However as I’ve gotten older, I’ve additionally felt one thing slipping. A quiet sense that I’m now not seen. Not with cruelty—simply absence. Just like the world turned the web page and forgot to convey me alongside.
Someday in remedy, I mentioned aloud what I’d been afraid to call: “I really feel just like the world’s finished with me.”
My therapist listened kindly. “Why don’t you write about it?” she mentioned.
So I did.
I started an essay about age, invisibility, and which means—what it looks like to maneuver via a tradition that doesn’t at all times worth its elders. I known as it The Decline of the Elders, and it grew to become one of many hardest issues I’ve ever written.
Every sentence pulled one thing uncooked out of me. I wasn’t simply writing; I used to be reliving. My thoughts circled via reminiscences I hadn’t totally processed, doubts I hadn’t admitted, losses I hadn’t grieved. I’d stand up, tempo, sit down once more, write, delete, rewrite. It was as if I had been opening an previous wound that had by no means actually healed. The ache was actual—and so was the urgency to grasp it.
Then got here the attention injection—a daily remedy for macular degeneration. This time, it didn’t go effectively. My eye throbbed, burned, and wouldn’t cease watering. Ultimately, each eyes blurred. Nonetheless, I sat there making an attempt to jot down, blinking via bodily and emotional ache, making an attempt to complete what I had began.
Every part damage—my imaginative and prescient, my physique, my sense of objective. I didn’t wish to die, however I didn’t know learn how to stay with what I used to be feeling.
So I known as 911.
“This isn’t an emergency,” I instructed the dispatcher. “I simply want to speak to somebody. A hotline or counselor—something.”
She linked me to the Suicide & Disaster Lifeline—a lifeline for folks in imminent hazard of harming themselves. In case you are suicidal, please name. It may well save your life. My mistake was utilizing it for one thing it’s not designed for.
I spoke with a sort younger man and instructed him the reality: I used to be in remedy. I used to be writing one thing painful. I used to be overwhelmed however protected. I simply wanted a voice on the opposite finish. Somebody to listen to me.
Then got here the knock on the door.
Three law enforcement officials. Calm. Well mannered. However agency.
“I’m okay,” I mentioned. “I’m not a hazard. I simply wanted somebody to speak to.”
That didn’t matter. Protocol had been triggered.
They escorted me to the squad automobile and drove me to the psychiatric ER. I felt powerless and embarrassed, not sure how a easy name had escalated so shortly.
They took me to the psychiatric ER at LA County Common.
No beds. Simply recliner chairs lined up in a dim, buzzing room. I used to be searched. My belongings had been taken. I used to be assigned a chair and handed a bean burrito. They supplied treatment if I wanted it. One skinny blanket. A buzzing TV that by no means turned off.
I didn’t need sedation. I didn’t desire a distraction. I simply sat with it—all of it.
And round me, others sat too: a person curled into himself, shaking; a younger lady staring blankly into area; somebody muttering unintelligibly to nobody in any respect. Actual ache. Uncooked ache. Individuals who appeared fully misplaced in it.
That’s when the disgrace hit me.
I didn’t belong right here, I assumed. I wasn’t like them. I had a house. A therapist. A way of self, nevertheless fractured. I hadn’t tried to harm anybody. I’d simply requested to be heard. And but there I used to be—taking on area, assets, consideration—whereas others clearly wanted it extra.
However that too was a sort of false separation. Who was I to say I didn’t belong? I’d known as in desperation. I’d misplaced perspective. My disaster could have seemed totally different, nevertheless it was actual.
Ultimately, a nurse got here to interview me. I instructed her all the pieces—the writing, the injection, the spiral I’d been caught in. She listened. And someday after midnight, they let me go.
My spouse picked me up. Quiet. Not sure. I didn’t blame her. I barely knew what had simply occurred myself.
Later that night time, I sat once more within the chair the place it had all began. My eyes ached much less. However I used to be surprised. And surprisingly clear.
The expertise hadn’t destroyed me. It had initiated me.
I additionally realized how naïve I’d been. I hadn’t researched options. I hadn’t explored my actual choices. I’d reached for essentially the most seen answer out of emotional exhaustion. That desperation wasn’t weak point—it was a symptom of a deeper want I hadn’t totally acknowledged.
And I discovered one thing I’ll always remember:
Vulnerability is highly effective, nevertheless it’s not at all times protected.
I used to suppose that honesty was at all times one of the best path. That if I opened up, somebody would meet me there with compassion. And sometimes that’s true. However not at all times. Programs aren’t constructed for subtlety. Establishments can’t at all times distinguish between emotional honesty and threat.
And never each particular person is a protected place for our fact. Some folks repeatedly reduce our ache or dismiss our emotions. We would lengthy for his or her validation, however defending ourselves means recognizing when somebody isn’t prepared or capable of give it.
Since then, I’ve stored writing. I’ve stored feeling. However I’ve additionally discovered to be extra discerning.
Now I ask myself:
- Is that this the appropriate second for this fact?
- Is that this particular person or area capable of maintain it?
- Am I searching for connection—or rescue?
There’s no disgrace in needing assist. However there may be knowledge in studying learn how to ask for it, and who to ask.
I nonetheless imagine in reality. I nonetheless imagine in tenderness. However I additionally imagine in studying learn how to shield what’s sacred inside us.
So if you happen to’re somebody who feels deeply—who writes, displays, or breaks open in surprising methods—that is what I would like you to know:
You aren’t weak. You aren’t damaged. However you might be tender. And tenderness wants care, not containment—care from folks you’ll be able to belief to honor it.
Give your fact a spot the place it may be held, not punished. And if that place doesn’t but exist, construct it—beginning with one protected particular person, one sincere dialog, one web page in your journal. Phrase by phrase. Breath by breath.
As a result of your ache is actual. Your voice issues.
And when shared with care, your fact can nonetheless gentle the way in which.
About Tony Collins
Tony Collins is a documentary filmmaker, educator, and author whose work explores creativity, caregiving, and private progress. He’s the creator of: Home windows to the Sea—a shifting assortment of essays on love, loss, and presence. Inventive Scholarship—a information for educators and artists rethinking how artistic work is valued. Tony writes to replicate on what issues—and to assist others really feel much less alone.
