On Claiming My Own Voice

I am white.  Cisgendered.  Heterosexual.  Able-bodied.  Neurotypical.  White collar.  Middle class.  Suburban American.  All of which can contribute to a feeling of not being particularly special and therefore not having anything particularly special to contribute to a lot of the important conversations going on.  (Black and white thinking, I know, but true.)

I also identify as a suicide loss survivor, mental health advocate, and individual who herself struggles with mental illness.  I work very hard in my role as a therapist to normalize the difficulties my clients face and to enable them to talk about everything from serious trauma and suicidality to every other thought that can make a person feel completely alienated and alone.  And I work very hard on myself in my efforts to not only practice what I preach but also integrate greater levels of spirituality and universal compassion.  All of which leads me to feel like I have quite a lot to say on the subject of mental health and its countless intersections within all of those aforementioned important conversations.

In the end, though, the most accurate term I can use to label myself (for as useful as labels can be) is human.  I think that best captures all the similarities and differences.  Not only of myself, but of everyone.  Human describes all people on the planet regardless of what they do or don't identify as.  And therefore dehuamization in any form is what I hate the most.  And one of the most dehuamizing experiences a person can have is being denied their voice.  Especially when the person denying it is them.

So regardless of how special or completely ordinary I may be I have to speak out.  About what I know and what I don't.  I have to share information and ask questions.  I have to point out what the world looks like from within my own skin and try to get a better understanding of what it looks like from inside others'.  I have to amplify my own voice and also hand the mic over to those being silenced.

It's not about being special.  If I believe in human rights then I have to believe in my own.  Especially the right to my own voice.

Reality

I haven't lived in an apartment since I was in my 20's and I admit, I kind-of thought I outgrew it.  My future held  large homes with yards that needed maintenance and neighbors taking their kids to soccer practice- not a downstairs neighbor screaming at an imaginary enemy or a broken radiator.  I thought I'd moved past the cheap Ikea dresser that takes hours to put together (not to mention a lot of cursing.)  I was beyond eating left over pizza for days because I didn't have any money left to do legitimate grocery shopping until my next paycheck.  I was grown-up, secure, home.

And yet, here I am- broke once again, asking my friends to help me schlep all of my belongings up old, creaky stairs and trying to remind myself that i'm strong enough to face it all again.  I've been saying throughout this entire process that this is the hardest thing I've ever done and facing reality dead-on hasn't done anything other than make that statement more true.

But what I try to remind myself of, what i'm trying to believe in every cell, every membrane, is that this is the testing ground of the soul.  This is the make or break time that defines my character.  This is the lesson that stands out above all others, and which serves me more than any of the others.  This is the thing that I can talk about on the other side of saying "if I could get through that, I can get through anything."

I am made of tougher stuff than what I am facing down right now.  This will not break me- this is how i will break through.

Dark Moon

They say that getting lost is the best way to find yourself.  that when you emerge from the dense woods you are a changed person- better, stronger, more skilled and able to face down bigger and more frightening obstacles without breaking a sweat.  But from the middle of the forest the woods look rather dark and frightening and you can't help but want to turn back every other second.

But when you're lost you can't turn back- the past no longer exists as a path you can travel, there are no breadcrumbs now.  The only way out is through.

That's where I am.  In the dark, remembering how easy life used to be, and praying I have the mettle to make it out of the forest alive.