"it's all an act you're playing, a role that you put on
a faded coat somebody handed down into your hands
everything you're saying, it's all been said anon
our dreams are only shoddy schemes nobody understands"
[Mike Wade, "Let It All Fall"]
a faded coat somebody handed down into your hands
everything you're saying, it's all been said anon
our dreams are only shoddy schemes nobody understands"
[Mike Wade, "Let It All Fall"]
Hush. Sit down. Stay calm for a minute. I've got a secret I want to share with you. It might seem a little frightening at first, so I want you to pretend it's just the two of us here. No one will hear. No one will know. And I promise I won't tell anyone else afterward. It's just the two of us: I, the writer, and you, the reader. Be very quiet. We don't want anyone to know, now do we?
But first make me one promise: that you won't stop reading. Don't let anything I say frighten you away. Once you start reading, don't stop until we're done. It might be a little harsh at first, but grit your teeth and bear it.
Ready?
When I was in grade school, one of the classes ahead of me performed "The Emperor's New Clothes" for a stageplay one year. If you're not familiar with the story, here's the reader's digest version as I remember it: a tailor gives a tyrant king an imaginary set of robes, telling him something like how the truly amazing thing about them is that only the wise can see them. The king walks around naked in his imaginary robes while he and all his loyal subjects pretend to see them. It's a big joke and nobody wants to admit they don't get it. It takes the village idiot or some such to bravely point out the fact that he's not actually wearing anything.
I found the performance a little boring, but hey, it was just grade school. But I also thought the story a little too contrived. I just didn't quite get it at the time. I thought the characters were idiotic cowards. How could nobody have the nerve to tell him he was naked? He was bare-assed nekkid! (Well, in the school play he had on undies, but you get the point.) Geez. Such cowardice. Why so afraid of the truth? Just tell him!
But I was young and naive then. I didn't understand the world. I still saw it with optimistic eyes, not yet jaded and frightened by the tragedies of life. I was only beginning the descent we all face. I'd only begun carefully constructing the little walls be all build to keep our feelings to ourselves and shut the world out. The walls we build to conceal our "weakness". And as we get older, we're taught a lot about how to feel, aren't we? Boys seem to learn a few things about being "macho" for instance. Crying is out. Swearing is in. A shot in the groin is allowed to hurt, but not so much that you'd cry, of course. Telling a girl you love her is ok, but not out loud and over the phone.
In first year psychology at MUN, I learned about an interesting experiment. They say that if you put 4 or 5 people in a circle and ask them to compare a few lengths of string, and if the first 3 people are people you've planted there who will all agree on the wrong answer, there is something like a 60% chance that the 4th person will trust them. Either they'll believe them over their own eyes, or at least agree with them even in being wrong regardless of what they actually know is the truth. Odds jump higher again for that 5th one after the 4th has agreed. Takes a lot of will to go against the crowd, they say. Power of peer pressure, they say.
Not being taught to defy and question the truth, I say. What do you expect from people who are usually raised under indoctrinated religions and simultaneously piped through a melting-pot education system while trying to keep up with the latest fashions in their spare time? We're sausages. But that's an argument for another day.
The point is that I want to be that 4th person. And I don't want to agree with the other three. I want to be the courageous fourth, the minority fourth who speaks the truth, unafraid. I want to be the village idiot who plainly tells the king he's naked. And I want you to be that 4th too. Because it's just so incredibly liberating.
Here is a truth that I see. Here's that secret I wanted to share. Your highness, there's something I have to tell you...
I am weak.
I am a pathetically weak emotional little wreck.
But I am not alone.
Because you are weak too.
You too are a pathetically weak emotional little wreck.
Every single fucking one of you.
Sit down, I ain't done.
I bet John Wayne sometimes sobbed himself to sleep at night, and if he didn't because he wouldn't let himself, then he's a bigger pussy than either of us.
But don't be afraid. This is good news, not bad. In fact, this is fantastic news. It means we need each other. And needing each other is not a sign of weakness. That's the lie you've been led to believe. That's the myth each of us continue to perpetrate. Needing each other is actually a sign of strength. It's what it is to be human. Being human means needing to be loved. It means needing to love others. It means seeking approval. It means having friends. And it means missing those friends when they are gone, and crying sometimes when we are upset. It means that when someone you love dies you go so far out of your fucking mind with grief that you consider ending your own life or having yourself committed to an asylum. Or you get so numb you can't even think straight and feel like a zombie. Or after weeks of thinking you are fine you surprise yourself one day when you break down suddenly into a quivering mass of tears and unintelligible syllables.
I was very depressed throughout most of my youth, to the point of having suicidal longings. And I imagine that most of my siblings felt the same. Each of us struggled to cope with the situation at home with my mother's MS. And my mother struggled with it. And my father struggled with it. And we each had all the other stresses in our lives that one has too. But we all put on our brave faces. We all acted strong. Never a moment's weakness. Never show fear.
And most of the friends I was growing up with were going through all the usual teenage growing pains: dating, school, difficulty learning to cope with their parents and siblings, trying to make friends. And most of them were actually going through a great deal of depression as well. But we all acted strong. Never a moment's weakness. Never show fear.
And it was all such a big fat lie.
And maintaining that lie maintained that "status quo". Because when you pretend you are all right, and you pretend you are strong, pride or shame keep you from seeking the help you need, from seeking the help we all need. Ignoring problems doesn't make them go away. You can avert your eyes, but it's still there.
I had one of my first drunken epiphanies when I was about 18 or 19. There were 4 of us I think, all sitting in an upstairs bedroom at a friend's party. I can only vaguely remember the experience now, being that it was about a decade ago and I was very drunk at the time. But here's what happened. Someone, one of us, I don't even remember who, suddenly broke and started talking about how they sometimes got so depressed they felt suicidal. How they sometimes got so stressed they cried themselves to sleep at night. How they felt like such a wimp because everyone around them was able to cope and they couldn't. They were weak. They were a coward. And they had to hide this fact. But once they'd opened this door of conversation, suddenly everyone came charging through. Each person sat and spoke about the things that upset them. About the times when they broke down, home alone, where no one would know. About how they too, put on their brave face for the world, but inside was just a bundle of nerves. And suddenly we all found a certain strength in that room, a solace in knowing we were not alone, and in that we were not "the weak one", but we were normal, or at least among friends who felt the same. We felt the incredible liberty that comes from taking off the mask of bravery, and shedding the illusionary cloak of pride.
Then we sobered up. We put our masks back on. We put our cloaks back on. And by the next day we pretended like it never had happened, and have seldom spoke of it since.
When my mother died, I lay awake staring at my ceiling many nights. I just lay there, staring and thinking, for hours. I would watch the sunlight slowly come into my room at dawn. But my brain would not stop. I could not stop the thinking. The pain. The confusion. It just lingered there, right behind my eyes. And some 30 feet away, in another room, my sister Nancy was doing the exact same thing. We were carefully maintaining that same fascade of strength we'd displayed all our lives to this point. And finally I broke, and at 3 am one night, I stepped close to the doorway of her room and whispered to her to see if she were awake. She was, and she invited me in. I sat on the foot of her bed and we talked for hours. This became almost a regular routine for weeks afterwards. Some nights I'd go to her. Some nights she'd come to me. But in those weeks we helped each other grieve our mother immensely, and at the same time we formed a bond between us that we'd never had before. Suddenly we had our own little secret pact: that if either of us really felt we were at the end of our rope, we could turn to one another, because we knew we could count on the other to be there when we needed them. And I wished I'd done it a decade earlier when I needed it then.
I find myself at the end of my rope often. And when I do, I try to gather up my courage, shed that illusory cloak, and confide to a friend how I feel. And a good friend gladly helps you bear that pain. And they feel no burden doing so. True friends don't want to only share in your happiness, they want to share in your sorrow too. They want to share all of your life with you.
When I see people grieving I feel for them. And when I see friends grieving I want to reach out and share their pain.
I hear them say "I feel so alone" and I think of that party when I finally found out I wasn't alone.
I hear them say "no one could understand" and I think of sitting on the end of my sister's bed and discarding 10 years of pretending we were fine when we weren't.
I hear them say "I feel like I'm so weak" and I think, "Compared to what? The illusion of strength the rest of us put on? Compared to the Emperor's loyal subjects who nod enthusiastically that his robes are just lovely?"
Because when at long last, sitting on the edge of a bed at 3 am, or looking glassy-eyed over your drink at a friend slurring their words next to you, whenever, and however, we finally find the courage to swallow our pride, and stand, unashamed, before the masses to say, "holy shit! Look, I'm naked." we will find that the courageous amongst them do not point and laugh. They do not mock. They applaud us instead. They shed their imaginary robes and say, "yeah... I'm naked too. Let's be naked together." And the cowards are the ones who insist no one is naked, not even you, and flee in panic. That's fine. You don't need them.
Each of us copes with our problems in our own ways. And each of us has problems to cope with. And none among us are truly "weak". Because to characterize someone or something as "weak" means conversely that someone or something else must be characterized as "strong". And I haven't found that "strong" person.
All I've ever found is a village full of loyal subjects who've all been to the same charlatan of a tailor.
But first make me one promise: that you won't stop reading. Don't let anything I say frighten you away. Once you start reading, don't stop until we're done. It might be a little harsh at first, but grit your teeth and bear it.
Ready?
When I was in grade school, one of the classes ahead of me performed "The Emperor's New Clothes" for a stageplay one year. If you're not familiar with the story, here's the reader's digest version as I remember it: a tailor gives a tyrant king an imaginary set of robes, telling him something like how the truly amazing thing about them is that only the wise can see them. The king walks around naked in his imaginary robes while he and all his loyal subjects pretend to see them. It's a big joke and nobody wants to admit they don't get it. It takes the village idiot or some such to bravely point out the fact that he's not actually wearing anything.
I found the performance a little boring, but hey, it was just grade school. But I also thought the story a little too contrived. I just didn't quite get it at the time. I thought the characters were idiotic cowards. How could nobody have the nerve to tell him he was naked? He was bare-assed nekkid! (Well, in the school play he had on undies, but you get the point.) Geez. Such cowardice. Why so afraid of the truth? Just tell him!
But I was young and naive then. I didn't understand the world. I still saw it with optimistic eyes, not yet jaded and frightened by the tragedies of life. I was only beginning the descent we all face. I'd only begun carefully constructing the little walls be all build to keep our feelings to ourselves and shut the world out. The walls we build to conceal our "weakness". And as we get older, we're taught a lot about how to feel, aren't we? Boys seem to learn a few things about being "macho" for instance. Crying is out. Swearing is in. A shot in the groin is allowed to hurt, but not so much that you'd cry, of course. Telling a girl you love her is ok, but not out loud and over the phone.
In first year psychology at MUN, I learned about an interesting experiment. They say that if you put 4 or 5 people in a circle and ask them to compare a few lengths of string, and if the first 3 people are people you've planted there who will all agree on the wrong answer, there is something like a 60% chance that the 4th person will trust them. Either they'll believe them over their own eyes, or at least agree with them even in being wrong regardless of what they actually know is the truth. Odds jump higher again for that 5th one after the 4th has agreed. Takes a lot of will to go against the crowd, they say. Power of peer pressure, they say.
Not being taught to defy and question the truth, I say. What do you expect from people who are usually raised under indoctrinated religions and simultaneously piped through a melting-pot education system while trying to keep up with the latest fashions in their spare time? We're sausages. But that's an argument for another day.
The point is that I want to be that 4th person. And I don't want to agree with the other three. I want to be the courageous fourth, the minority fourth who speaks the truth, unafraid. I want to be the village idiot who plainly tells the king he's naked. And I want you to be that 4th too. Because it's just so incredibly liberating.
Here is a truth that I see. Here's that secret I wanted to share. Your highness, there's something I have to tell you...
I am weak.
I am a pathetically weak emotional little wreck.
But I am not alone.
Because you are weak too.
You too are a pathetically weak emotional little wreck.
Every single fucking one of you.
Sit down, I ain't done.
I bet John Wayne sometimes sobbed himself to sleep at night, and if he didn't because he wouldn't let himself, then he's a bigger pussy than either of us.
But don't be afraid. This is good news, not bad. In fact, this is fantastic news. It means we need each other. And needing each other is not a sign of weakness. That's the lie you've been led to believe. That's the myth each of us continue to perpetrate. Needing each other is actually a sign of strength. It's what it is to be human. Being human means needing to be loved. It means needing to love others. It means seeking approval. It means having friends. And it means missing those friends when they are gone, and crying sometimes when we are upset. It means that when someone you love dies you go so far out of your fucking mind with grief that you consider ending your own life or having yourself committed to an asylum. Or you get so numb you can't even think straight and feel like a zombie. Or after weeks of thinking you are fine you surprise yourself one day when you break down suddenly into a quivering mass of tears and unintelligible syllables.
I was very depressed throughout most of my youth, to the point of having suicidal longings. And I imagine that most of my siblings felt the same. Each of us struggled to cope with the situation at home with my mother's MS. And my mother struggled with it. And my father struggled with it. And we each had all the other stresses in our lives that one has too. But we all put on our brave faces. We all acted strong. Never a moment's weakness. Never show fear.
And most of the friends I was growing up with were going through all the usual teenage growing pains: dating, school, difficulty learning to cope with their parents and siblings, trying to make friends. And most of them were actually going through a great deal of depression as well. But we all acted strong. Never a moment's weakness. Never show fear.
And it was all such a big fat lie.
And maintaining that lie maintained that "status quo". Because when you pretend you are all right, and you pretend you are strong, pride or shame keep you from seeking the help you need, from seeking the help we all need. Ignoring problems doesn't make them go away. You can avert your eyes, but it's still there.
I had one of my first drunken epiphanies when I was about 18 or 19. There were 4 of us I think, all sitting in an upstairs bedroom at a friend's party. I can only vaguely remember the experience now, being that it was about a decade ago and I was very drunk at the time. But here's what happened. Someone, one of us, I don't even remember who, suddenly broke and started talking about how they sometimes got so depressed they felt suicidal. How they sometimes got so stressed they cried themselves to sleep at night. How they felt like such a wimp because everyone around them was able to cope and they couldn't. They were weak. They were a coward. And they had to hide this fact. But once they'd opened this door of conversation, suddenly everyone came charging through. Each person sat and spoke about the things that upset them. About the times when they broke down, home alone, where no one would know. About how they too, put on their brave face for the world, but inside was just a bundle of nerves. And suddenly we all found a certain strength in that room, a solace in knowing we were not alone, and in that we were not "the weak one", but we were normal, or at least among friends who felt the same. We felt the incredible liberty that comes from taking off the mask of bravery, and shedding the illusionary cloak of pride.
Then we sobered up. We put our masks back on. We put our cloaks back on. And by the next day we pretended like it never had happened, and have seldom spoke of it since.
When my mother died, I lay awake staring at my ceiling many nights. I just lay there, staring and thinking, for hours. I would watch the sunlight slowly come into my room at dawn. But my brain would not stop. I could not stop the thinking. The pain. The confusion. It just lingered there, right behind my eyes. And some 30 feet away, in another room, my sister Nancy was doing the exact same thing. We were carefully maintaining that same fascade of strength we'd displayed all our lives to this point. And finally I broke, and at 3 am one night, I stepped close to the doorway of her room and whispered to her to see if she were awake. She was, and she invited me in. I sat on the foot of her bed and we talked for hours. This became almost a regular routine for weeks afterwards. Some nights I'd go to her. Some nights she'd come to me. But in those weeks we helped each other grieve our mother immensely, and at the same time we formed a bond between us that we'd never had before. Suddenly we had our own little secret pact: that if either of us really felt we were at the end of our rope, we could turn to one another, because we knew we could count on the other to be there when we needed them. And I wished I'd done it a decade earlier when I needed it then.
I find myself at the end of my rope often. And when I do, I try to gather up my courage, shed that illusory cloak, and confide to a friend how I feel. And a good friend gladly helps you bear that pain. And they feel no burden doing so. True friends don't want to only share in your happiness, they want to share in your sorrow too. They want to share all of your life with you.
When I see people grieving I feel for them. And when I see friends grieving I want to reach out and share their pain.
I hear them say "I feel so alone" and I think of that party when I finally found out I wasn't alone.
I hear them say "no one could understand" and I think of sitting on the end of my sister's bed and discarding 10 years of pretending we were fine when we weren't.
I hear them say "I feel like I'm so weak" and I think, "Compared to what? The illusion of strength the rest of us put on? Compared to the Emperor's loyal subjects who nod enthusiastically that his robes are just lovely?"
Because when at long last, sitting on the edge of a bed at 3 am, or looking glassy-eyed over your drink at a friend slurring their words next to you, whenever, and however, we finally find the courage to swallow our pride, and stand, unashamed, before the masses to say, "holy shit! Look, I'm naked." we will find that the courageous amongst them do not point and laugh. They do not mock. They applaud us instead. They shed their imaginary robes and say, "yeah... I'm naked too. Let's be naked together." And the cowards are the ones who insist no one is naked, not even you, and flee in panic. That's fine. You don't need them.
Each of us copes with our problems in our own ways. And each of us has problems to cope with. And none among us are truly "weak". Because to characterize someone or something as "weak" means conversely that someone or something else must be characterized as "strong". And I haven't found that "strong" person.
All I've ever found is a village full of loyal subjects who've all been to the same charlatan of a tailor.
