Some of the most shocking stories I have heard are those that I think are predictable, but then they throw me through a loop and blow my mind. Who knew that the story would go like that? Dang, that was the last thing I was expecting from that person.
I have a background of suffering from anxiety and depression for the past five years. For most of that time, I could always count on one hand the total number of people who knew my story. There was no way I was about to be vulnerable with people. I was anxious about telling people I was anxious. I was a mess. Soon it became too hard to hide it anymore, and now I had to either begin to share my story with others or continue to keep it bottled up and eventually explode over everyone in a 10 mile radius around me.
This past school year was the first time I took an opportunity to tell my story. To say I didn't want to do it was an understatement. But as an RAR (Resident Assistant Roommate), I put the pressure on myself to tell my story to the freshman girls on our floor, just as the rest of my roommates had been telling their stories over the past few weeks. I remember looking at my roommates an hour before and saying, "I just don't want to do this." But, because I have a tendency to commit to something before I really think it through, I sat down, looked around the room at all the faces, and began telling my story.
The details are for another time, but I'll suffice it to say that my twenty minutes of speaking was centered around my struggle with mental illness in recent years. After it was over, I went to bed that night feeling so--for lack of a better, more professional term--stupid. Why in the world did I share that with people? Now they are going to look at me much differently. I don't want people to walk on eggshells around me. I'm still me--don't they see that? My Dad often tells me that I like to fight with myself, and this was one of those moments. To me, my story was inadequate. It didn't have a happy ending because it was still a daily battle I was experiencing. What was the point in telling a story from which no one could learn or enjoy? My perspective was one of shame and weakness.
Until the next day when my entire perspective changed...
The following afternoon, I went home after finishing up with my classes, and there was a note on my desk. I opened it up and started reading. And just like that I realized that my story had a listener who was impacted the previous night. One of the freshman girls wrote and described how my story had particularly impacted her because she had been experiencing the same battle inside her own brain. She told me how much she appreciated my openness and wanted to meet up to talk more about anxiety and depression. Okay, I was wrong. My story does have meaning--maybe just to one person--but that is enough. Today I can say that I tell my story more often, and as a result, more and more people are contacting me to tell me how relieved they are to hear that they are not alone in their struggles.
Everyone has a story. Look around. The man waiting at the bus stop or the girl sitting next to you in class; the cashier at the grocery store or your boss at work. You never know who could have a similar story to yours. Just because they haven't told it doesn't mean it doesn't exist. So tell your story. I dare you. Put away your pride and sit down and write. Write on a piece of paper, write in your head, write on your computer, write with the words that come out of your mouth; regardless of your medium, write in a way that will write on someone's heart. You don't have to tell us every single detail (please spare us as I have spared you), but start a chain reaction of bravery in sharing your story. You may not ever see the direct outcome of your courage, but you have to trust that there will be positive repercussions.
We all have a story, so go ahead,
tell yours.
