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juushikaI've been thinking about my last (locked) post, and they've been thoughts like these:
Perhaps why it matters so much to me is that I hate to lie. I hate all lies, even little white lies, even pleasantries. I'm the sort of person to give an honest answer to a casual "how are you?", but I know I'm not alone in that. I'm also the sort that hates to give unmeant compliment or thanks, even for a well-intended gift; I have tricks to avoid the troublesome topic and say something true to say, instead.
Part of this may be an introvert's distaste for polite, small conversation, but at it root it's that I've lied too much already. Because of how I was raised, because of the culture I live in, because of the college I was attending when my mental health issues came on in full force, I grew up to believe that I couldn't say the truth about myself. Who I was—the underlying truth of my identity, the nature of my daily life—was socially unacceptable. If I didn't have anything nice to say I shouldn't say anything at all; the truth made other people uncomfortable, and giving voice to bad things made them real. "How are you?" was supposed to be "fine," but I rarely was, and that wasn't some silly nitpick—it silenced me, and made me feel isolated, unacceptable, profane, inappropriate, unwanted.
I've written before about the process of coming out of that—of the bus ride were I told my seat mate about my medication, and how it began a difficult and necessary trend towards honesty. I've talked about why it matters, about how the silence and shame and stigma around mental health issues can be as painful as the issues themselves. So now I try hard to be honest, honest about who I am and how I feel, but while I'm at it: fuck all the social niceties, the things I'm supposed to say. It's partially the principle of the thing, but it's also that it doesn't matter that these lies exists because we don't want to hurt one another—so help me, they do. Not talking about how fucking miserable I was at Whitman may have kept my fellow students comfortable, but it hasn't yet stopped hurting me. Telling someone I'm happy about something they've done, about a role they've played, tells them that they've done right and silences my experience as the recipient of things done wrong.
I don't need to go to the other extreme, to make every opportunity a chance to tell My Life Story of Suffering and Pain, to turn one holiday into a family confrontation. And I don't, and that's a good thing. (Although it does bother me that there is so much I still don't say. Not lying is still not the same as telling the truth. I'm too good at deferring, and I still feel so much shame about what I feel and do. It's hard to kick, you know? I've learned a lot of honesty and I'm learning more, but that's because there's a need to.) But I don't say things unless I mean them, even if—especially if—someone else feels I ought. That makes me selfish and ungrateful: so be it. It's about being selfish, about being ungrateful, about learning to respect myself.
Perhaps why it matters so much to me is that I hate to lie. I hate all lies, even little white lies, even pleasantries. I'm the sort of person to give an honest answer to a casual "how are you?", but I know I'm not alone in that. I'm also the sort that hates to give unmeant compliment or thanks, even for a well-intended gift; I have tricks to avoid the troublesome topic and say something true to say, instead.
Part of this may be an introvert's distaste for polite, small conversation, but at it root it's that I've lied too much already. Because of how I was raised, because of the culture I live in, because of the college I was attending when my mental health issues came on in full force, I grew up to believe that I couldn't say the truth about myself. Who I was—the underlying truth of my identity, the nature of my daily life—was socially unacceptable. If I didn't have anything nice to say I shouldn't say anything at all; the truth made other people uncomfortable, and giving voice to bad things made them real. "How are you?" was supposed to be "fine," but I rarely was, and that wasn't some silly nitpick—it silenced me, and made me feel isolated, unacceptable, profane, inappropriate, unwanted.
I've written before about the process of coming out of that—of the bus ride were I told my seat mate about my medication, and how it began a difficult and necessary trend towards honesty. I've talked about why it matters, about how the silence and shame and stigma around mental health issues can be as painful as the issues themselves. So now I try hard to be honest, honest about who I am and how I feel, but while I'm at it: fuck all the social niceties, the things I'm supposed to say. It's partially the principle of the thing, but it's also that it doesn't matter that these lies exists because we don't want to hurt one another—so help me, they do. Not talking about how fucking miserable I was at Whitman may have kept my fellow students comfortable, but it hasn't yet stopped hurting me. Telling someone I'm happy about something they've done, about a role they've played, tells them that they've done right and silences my experience as the recipient of things done wrong.
I don't need to go to the other extreme, to make every opportunity a chance to tell My Life Story of Suffering and Pain, to turn one holiday into a family confrontation. And I don't, and that's a good thing. (Although it does bother me that there is so much I still don't say. Not lying is still not the same as telling the truth. I'm too good at deferring, and I still feel so much shame about what I feel and do. It's hard to kick, you know? I've learned a lot of honesty and I'm learning more, but that's because there's a need to.) But I don't say things unless I mean them, even if—especially if—someone else feels I ought. That makes me selfish and ungrateful: so be it. It's about being selfish, about being ungrateful, about learning to respect myself.
