I sit slightly forward, elbows resting on arms of the chair turned away from my well-organized desk. My head is tilted just so. My face is open yet mostly passive in expression. My vision is sharp though my easy gaze gentle. Before me is a human being who hurts and rages and has lost her or his way. It is apparent in posture, what the hands and feet are doing, where the person’s gaze lands, how the tender yet rigid mouth moves. I hear the torrent of words or the hefty silences between halting sentences, and carefully mine the emotions from beneath it all. The real material, the precious nuggets of clues that tell me the true story. The snags and beacons in the story that illuminate my client’s difficulties and desires, the lingering or fresh heartaches and slivers of happiness. Or perhaps happiness is no longer even a memory. The great burden of that carried in another is not easy to see.

I know how to do this because I was trained in college and on the job for years to listen effectively as I worked with addicted and mentally unwell people. They are always deemed “high risk” individuals: the homeless, poverty-imprisoned, the drug-and-alcohol saturated, the ex-convicts, the gang members, those ravaged by the world and creeping illness. Young and middle-aged and older. Privledged and non-privledged persons who have been relegated to the precipice at the fringes. I sit before those who seem irrevocably damaged. And I let go of who I am other than their witness, of what I think I know, and accept the powerful of the constricted, convoluted tales of each journey. I seek from deep within myself and from God enough practical guidance, trustworthiness, compassion, and mercy to be of help. I release judgment. Truth is paramount to ask for and to give in such relationships for any progress to be made. For healing to commence and hold fast. And also to be able to step back enough to keep a clear perspective and a calm being.

It is demanding of all energies and it is what I love–being there for others in helpful manner. Though it wasn’t always so.

Over the years of working with the mentally ill and addicted, I became known as a calm presence, reserved but responsive when meaningful, tough as often required, and able to take action as needed. This all may have come from an inborn capacity to simply pay attention. I have a deep well inside that holds many sorts of things coupled with a mind that looks at things analytically and as fully as possible. I feel things strongly but I do not often flinch. I can maintain balance even when pushed. And I love efficiency no matter what I do. Something has to be practical, useful–it is a part of problem solving–or it is not offered to a client (or any others).

But I also had to develop useful mental and emotional skills from an early age, out of necessity. It took effort and repetition, going through critical troubles and later restorations. It takes many emergency situations to build up more courage, strength and insight. During those years I learned how to listen. to watch closely, to gather information and invite disparate pieces to match up. I was hungry for truth.

But despite doing well in my profession–you knew this was coming, perhaps–in my personal life, not so much. Each day potentially offers an experience that is uncomfortable or baffling, unexpectedly arduous, worrisome. And there is my own personality, my own history that is brought to every moment. I was and am no sterling example of superior well-being. I am still figuring things out like we all must do. But two things I employ is a broad perspective coupled with an ability to zoom in on the details. (As a kid I used to imagine a perspective from another view, like what the catcher saw when the batter was up, and vice versa, and then from all bases.) Despite tears or flares of temper, I know how to return to a good balance. I analyze situations and consider solutions as needed. (It was still taught in school, after all: critical thinking.)

As years have passed, I realized I’ve been on the listening end most of my life. (Though no one who knows me would say I’m first and last a quiet person.) And my heart and mind, as a clinician and human being, are not primed to be judgmental of people who have committed crimes, have drug-addled minds and bodies, and have severe diagnoses that are diffcult to treat. It is not hard to accept others. I know every person has a complicated history that is a web they may get tangled within. And yet I am quick to judge myself too often; this affects willingness to be fully myself.

This, despite the fact that I have been engaged in a diversity of therapeutic relationships from the receiving end much of my life. Hurt folks who become healthier often desire to help others, to pass along empoathy and care. But the fact is, I had no desire to do what I ended up doing. I was all about the arts, not that. Then unusual circumstances led me to jobs that required caring for those in great need. I needed the purpose and money so I simply took the first, then other jobs. Before long I was informed– and slowly began to see–that it was a good fit, despite my resistance. But I found it odd that I was eager to offer resources and compassion to others with dire crises though I was often remiss in support of my own change process. I felt I had to be far better, and yet a long criss-crossed history preceeded any successes–I felt too often unacceptable to many.

In my private–emphasis on private— life there were such bumps and bruises I sometimes could not believe I was managing, much less flourishing in some aspects. My confidence grew as I undertook more responsibilities at work. Still, those skills used in counseling and educating clients were not as useful in my daily life, at least at first. One setting for those skills was professional, a controlled situation with a time stamp on it. Back home, there were vagaries of situation and reactions, feelings that shifted day and night. After all, humans generally have decent free agency, as opposed to most of those in treatment. When you think of it, variability of cause and effect and one’s reaction covers alot of territory in 24 hours. At work I could handle a combatant or even violent client; at home I’d more times than not feel uncertain regarding the best plan of action. But I had a team to work with– while at home I depended on only myself mostly. (Another part of the story: men, marriage problems, alcohol, marriage, men, and always raising several children.)

The key word in the preceding paragraph: private. I know well how to try to keep separate the personal from the public. How to be professional with clear boundaries about life beyond work. I was trained, as so many are, to keep things to myself in a world where proper behavior and attitude mean you succeeed, and not enough of those skills could tank your goals. Chin up, smile on your face. So, I was good at leaving my work at work, my personal life at home. (And gradually my personal life was also satisfying enough that work matters faded away easily.)

It was and is also not hard to do since I’ve kept too close my very private life since I was a child. As a person who suffered severe abuse (sexual abuse from a non-blood familial person; emotional and physical assaults as a youth and into adulthood), this is not surprising. Silence has meant survival; talking has equated more danger and hard consequences. There was no in-between per the perpetrators. But after a few years–many after the first one disappeared– there was a need to talk with a therapist. That was like forcing me to climb a harrowing mountain peak in a blizzard when I was better equipped to trod a flatter rocky road (in rain, at worst). I learned how to do it because I had no good options other than being plied with drugs. Even then, childhood abuse was a complete secret kept from my birth family. I was up against roadblocks that impeded navigation of even a “reasonably normal life”, as someone put it. Acting “well adjusted” just didn’t cut it enough. It took decades before a short statement of fact was spoken aloud to my family members. The toughest one that irrevocably changed my life from enthusiastic and joyful to feeling more alone and deeply miserable as a child. It shocked everyone but one sister who was also, it turned out, a victim.

The consequences of the long terrified silence, then therapy and several drugs given me were far-ranging. I have written of this in other posts. My life was lived on the edge for years, though I sought help or did whatever someone else deemed necessary. PTSD was not a common diagnosis for kids and teens in the 1950s/60s or even early 70s, other than for soldiers and other victims of violence or disasters. But back then, I had a public face and a private one; the division was necessary and long lasting. Honor student, figure skater, budding musician, a very socially engaged girl, yes. But I sought refuge in my room or within nature whever I could as I tried to avoid dying inside and out. And then I wrote myself alive every day, scribbling away in journals. Private journals. Typing poems and stories and essays and lyrics. Pondering how writing could lead me to the light and keep me there.

Now at 73, having been plunged and then rising up for air countless times, a challenging part remains how to share my life with my friends. It became more problematic; one can write of hardships and recoveries– but actually talking about these with others? And to do this in a way that is safe for me while not distressing to them. Confusing as they put facts together, then perceive me differently, perhaps treat me much differently. Or, more of a concern, there might be a reaction of disbelief. Or repulsion–then abandonment. It is tricky and rarely worth it to allow people to know my true and full story. It is rife with terrible events of many sorts. My friends would not like to hear about this, I think–those experiences that are faintly but still tattooed on my brain but do not need to be a part of anyone else’s storage bank.

One situation that has made sharing my first forty years better is being with those who are in recovery–from addictions, from an array of abuses and losses, from lives that have been profoundly tested in all ways and then surviving more or less intact. And even far better than intact. They get it. In fact, I don’t have to say much before they know what I mean. But they can also hear anything I have to say. The same goes for me. I am indebted to and have such love for those allies and dear friends.

But other good friends? I say so little they need to infer what is meant because I don’t talk about the past or if so, reluctantly, testing the waters. I do talk about good times, all the fun and interesting memories–which are true, too, and important. Sometimes I let leak just a little more. Then I often want to take it back fast, as if my words will burst into flame– and scar or terminate a growing friendship. My valued friends do not need to know what happened, what the impacts were–do they? They know I am present with them and alright here and now. Living with gratitude, curiosity, zest and anticipation of more good to come, as well as accepting the trials of being a human.

But what if someone wants to learn more as a relationship grows closer? That’s the hardest thing. That’s when I feel myself drawing way back, wanting to keep things lighter and in the moment, far from the complexity and remaining grief of “my previous life”, even though it is the same one that brought me to this moment and the happier state I claim. I have three newer women friends I care about so much, and they sometimes cast a curious glance, ask a few questions which I nimbly sidestep. And we are assiduously considerate of each other’s boundaries, so this helps me out. I am glad of that.

The people I meet in other social groups will not know much of my life. Is this healthy? Perhaps not for everyone, but it seems right to me. Self-protection is not a bad thing unless it isolates us so much we cannot trust anyone, so curl up into a weeping ball. I once knew how that felt. (And I will reach for help any time it’s needed.) Even if I still choose to withold parts of my life, it is my choice and that matters. (I once did not. Professionals demanded I divulge the whole truth even when quite young, and I had such fear and loathing of it… I often did not.) But what is the advantage to openess, anymore? I think of the past as a place long ago left. I revisit it in memoir writing but then the door closes. It cannot be altered. It cannot be forgotten; it can be in some ways acknowledged, forgiven, and accepted, then please not repeated. It can be a bit revised, perhaps, as the memory has an odd way of recalling and ordering facts or fictions. But I can keep on my own path, choose routes taken and create a better life.

So it is, again, finding the balance needed for reasonable and honest self-revelation. How much or how little is shared? As a writer, it gets stickier. But writing is what makes the most sense to me creatively and in other modes of being. How effectively can sharing a life help anyone–including myself?

I recall my mother telling me as a youth to “be careful of writing things down.” I thought it a strange thing to advise (I should have pressed her regarding the origin of this advice). So I never stopped: diaries, poems, songwriting, short stories, light vignettes of real life, ponderous essays, a novel or two. The experience of choosing words that revealed expansive stories encompassed much of what I loved.

Writing memoir, which I often do, is tricky. How do writers navigate the plain truth when it can affect others in their lives adversely? Or hurt or shock a person who thought they knew you well? What about one’s children, other family? Perhaps this is why some people write anonymously. Others, though, take the risk and attempt to tell all. Or at least share what matters most in a life without clarifying details that are intense, disturbing. I think I tend toward the latter, sharing the core and heart of a matter more than the disparate, hard-hitting facts. 

I have never been a soldier, nor have I experienced a myriad of other life changing roles or events, but I think I understand some of why so many never tell their entire truth. The revisiting of trauma can be an immense trigger –even with an experienced therapist and/or beloved person guiding the way through. And it is often far too much for most to hear, to imagine, to allow themselves to assimilate.

Also, this: life’s moments are held close in order to preserve them, to keep them undiluted, or to savor or mull over. There is potency and clarity that can occur when considering imporant things alone, in solitude. It does, afterall, belong to the lone bearer of that experience. Privacy matters– having something of one’s own kept free of others’ opinions, prejudices. Or there can be a sort of emotional theft, when a person who has their own issues wants more of the worst, like someone who moves towards an accident while others look away, sadly and respectfully, and leave. It is a sort of voyeurism I do not appreciate.

Two different people said something of use to me in response to learning more about my human tribulations.

One was a therapist I saw in my thirties when desperate once more to change my habits and even my life. I was out of ideas, running out of courage, when I looked for help. When I arrived at the appointment and proceeded to tell her of issues and old and recent events, she studied me a long moment, then said, “I cannot believe you are even still alive. It seems impossible you have endured so much and still have one ounce of hope or strength left in you.”

I was stunned. But I was grateful she heard me and saw that I also had a just little more hope. But as I left I thought what she said was peculiar, as well. I had not had the very worst life people can have, and I did not think I was so unusual. Maybe it was normalized for me, but I thought I was just living a life that was hard–and also wanted to move past the impediments. I wanted more control and wisdom. I knew lots of people kept going no matter what, so I felt like one more who wanted to do the same. But her words gave me much to reconsider.

More words that stuck were shared by my brother-in-law. We were eating a leisurely, happy meal on a restaurant deck when I shared something I hadn’t before. A vibrant sunset spread over the lapping waters of Lake Washington, my dear sister’s laughter had been easy and light on the summer breeze, her husband’s joking around both an aggravation and a pleasure. We then talked of more serious things. I mentioned how my faith in God had always helped me perservere. And that I was never truly alone. That I saw angels, and heard them sing in chorus the most gorgeous music when I was a small child lying in the grass, looking up at the sky–and the angels. Mother wasn’t sure what to think of that. But ever ever since I was certain we have access to God’s helpers, who want to aid us.

He leaned toward me and said, “You must write about it, how you have survived, and how angels have watched over you, how God never left you! People need to hear this, Cynthia, so tell about it, write–okay?” He was so filled with emotion, so adamant that his tears fell as dusk wrapped about us softly. We sat very still and looked out over the water. I felt the urgency of his words like a flash of energy filling me up. So, again, words shook me up– my tough, risk-taking (once a Navy fighter pilot who flew dangerous missions, taking off and landing on carrier decks), successful, wise-cracking brother-in-law imploring me to write about what I had experienced. Who was moved by my own words. I never knew he cared about my writing. My oldest sister smiled at me with glistening eyes. I knew she understood angels, too, and that she loved and accepted me.

As one of my oldest and finest friends told me once: “Tell the truth if you speak. You’re tough enough.” Yes, my friend, but I must be still braver. Those who hear also don’t always hear willingly.

I want to honor those who have given me help, who have believed in and comforted me. To present myself as I am–a writer willing to be generous and a person with a few lifetimes rolled into one. The past helped shape me and taught me valuable skills and lessons. It does this for us all. It, in time, also led me to a freedom from victimhood’s festering woundedness and grief that fueled anger, fear and imposed a hardness on my exterior until it seeped into my heart in the end. Over the decades I have been able to rediscover self respect, and restore my dignity. A dignity I once despaired of ever regaining when 12, 19, 28, 39.

There surely is a right time and a good method for sharing various elements of one’s journey. I need to develop more specific language, accrue the clarifying wisdom to speak up better, and do it with intention and authenticity. It isn’t about being brashly revealing or witholding the dramatic parts. Truth-telling in memoir isn’t even so much about me, but about shared human traits, dreams, trials and endeavors. It is about looking through a telescope and finding myself amid others, within a vast panorama of living. This takes a finesse and a boldness that I constantly labor over.

Offering up our personal experiences can assist one another. My tough times are not so unique since human history is rife with tragedies and triumphs. Yet they are experienced from my peculiar viewpoint, a product of environment, genetics, abilities and flaws, and a certain creative exposition shaped by my particular writer’s voice. I eagerly read and seek others’ stories, glean much by being absorbed by their exposure of a life. I am entertained, surprised, informed and encouraged by memoirs–as well as fictionalized work that reflects the author and humanity at large. We all want to root for well meaning protagonists and unravel the mysteries of those whom we do not want to root for; we want to find inspiration and fulfillment.

The perculiar irony of my writing this personal essay is that around the world people are sharing so much of their lives–visual platforms, via audio recording, in very frank ways. There is so much display of raw life, bodies unclothed, secret lives unveiled. Self-disclousre is common across all topics. People take issue if thay are asked to curtail it a bit, to consider sources and audiences. I scroll away at times as do others. I am appalled sometimes how easily people expose their lives or others’, unload prejudices, fears and misfortunes.

It isn’t difficult for me to understand how important it is to speak up, to take a stand, to blow the whistle. It is necessary to do so. But I also wonder if overexposure is a problem for humans. Do we, by repetition, become inured to humanity’s significant issues? Do we tend to tune out others–or better appreciate the whole picture–or cease seeking ever greater clarity? I don’t have clear answers. I just know that for some people, it isn’t tough to tell all– or to at least they seem to tell all.

I surely do think: let there be no harm done through my writing or speaking. For I am accountable, first and last, and language can inflict pain or bring healing. I know the power of both. And we all know words can create a bridge for crossing one shore to another, one person to another, and transform each other in the process.

Healing, then, a recurrent theme for me: words are a conduit that can propel us toward our best selves. May my truth telling find and know its own rhythm, direction and openess. Enough that someone may feel less afraid, exhausted, or alone. That they may feel included in the patchwork beauty made of humanity’s genius for making better efforts, even with knotty parts causing snags and unexpected designs. People have managed before to make their way despite towering odds and so will keep trying. My path has created its crooked, lovely route; I have gone on my way; I face the future armed with the knowledge that I can survive much, I have made it this far. And I am nurturing and sharing greater peace.

I hope my clients knew that they became my heroines and heroes. For their soul baring risk taking. Their hesitant trust. Their hard-wrought willingness to try new ways of being. To allow me to be present with their suffering, their messy and beautiful growth. For saying at the very last moment before giving up: “Here is my life, please hear me and care for me just as I am.” How simple and powerful it is to offer mercy and regard, how hard, even erroneous to turn away. We learned from each other; that was the point, perhaps. I must continue to aspire to similar vulnerability and strength as I share about this small, now quiet life I live. And perhaps more of my story will come forth. Being personal can matter even more, I believe, in such daunting times. We are, afterall, only utterly human, a community of the same creatures trying to find out way.