“Vulnerability just isn’t oversharing. It’s sharing with individuals who have earned the precise to listen to our story.” ~Brené Brown
Earlier this 12 months, I discovered myself in a spot I by no means imagined: locked in a psychiatric emergency room, carrying a paper wristband, surrounded by strangers in seen misery. I wasn’t suicidal. I hadn’t harmed anybody. I’d merely instructed the reality—and it led me there.
What occurred started, in a method, with writing.
I’m in my seventies, and I’ve lived a full life as a filmmaker, trainer, father, and now a caregiver for my ninety-six-year-old mom. However as I’ve gotten older, I’ve additionally felt one thing slipping. A quiet sense that I’m now not seen. Not with cruelty—simply absence. Just like the world turned the web page and forgot to convey me alongside.
Someday in remedy, I mentioned aloud what I’d been afraid to call: “I really feel just like the world’s carried out with me.”
My therapist listened kindly. “Why don’t you write about it?” she mentioned.
So I did.
I started an essay about age, invisibility, and which means—what it appears like to maneuver by way of a tradition that doesn’t at all times worth its elders. I referred to as it The Decline of the Elders, and it grew to become one of many hardest issues I’ve ever written.
Every sentence pulled one thing uncooked out of me. I wasn’t simply writing; I used to be reliving. My thoughts circled by way of recollections I hadn’t totally processed, doubts I hadn’t admitted, losses I hadn’t grieved. I’d stand up, tempo, sit down once more, write, delete, rewrite. It was as if I had been opening an outdated wound that had by no means actually healed. The ache was actual—and so was the urgency to grasp it.
Then got here the attention injection—a daily therapy for macular degeneration. This time, it didn’t go properly. My eye throbbed, burned, and wouldn’t cease watering. Finally, each eyes blurred. Nonetheless, I sat there attempting to jot down, blinking by way of bodily and emotional ache, attempting to complete what I had began.
All the things damage—my imaginative and prescient, my physique, my sense of goal. I didn’t wish to die, however I didn’t know the best way to dwell with what I used to be feeling.
So I referred to as 911.
“This isn’t an emergency,” I instructed the dispatcher. “I simply want to speak to somebody. A hotline or counselor—something.”
She linked me to the Suicide & Disaster Lifeline—a lifeline for individuals in imminent hazard of harming themselves. If you’re suicidal, please name. It could possibly save your life. My mistake was utilizing it for one thing it’s not designed for.
I spoke with a sort younger man and instructed him the reality: I used to be in remedy. I used to be writing one thing painful. I used to be overwhelmed however protected. I simply wanted a voice on the opposite finish. Somebody to listen to me.
Then got here the knock on the door.
Three law enforcement officials. Calm. Well mannered. However agency.
“I’m okay,” I mentioned. “I’m not a hazard. I simply wanted somebody to speak to.”
That didn’t matter. Protocol had been triggered.
They escorted me to the squad automotive and drove me to the psychiatric ER. I felt powerless and embarrassed, not sure how a easy name had escalated so shortly.
They took me to the psychiatric ER at LA County Basic.
No beds. Simply recliner chairs lined up in a dim, buzzing room. I used to be searched. My belongings had been taken. I used to be assigned a chair and handed a bean burrito. They supplied remedy if I wanted it. One skinny blanket. A buzzing TV that by no means turned off.
I didn’t need sedation. I didn’t desire a distraction. I simply sat with it—all of it.
And round me, others sat too: a person curled into himself, shaking; a younger lady staring blankly into house; somebody muttering unintelligibly to nobody in any respect. Actual ache. Uncooked ache. Individuals who appeared fully misplaced in it.
That’s when the disgrace hit me.
I didn’t belong right here, I believed. I wasn’t like them. I had a house. A therapist. A way of self, nonetheless fractured. I hadn’t tried to harm anybody. I’d simply requested to be heard. And but there I used to be—taking on house, assets, consideration—whereas others clearly wanted it extra.
However that too was a form of false separation. Who was I to say I didn’t belong? I’d referred to as in desperation. I’d misplaced perspective. My disaster could have regarded totally different, but it surely was actual.
Finally, a nurse got here to interview me. I instructed her the whole lot—the writing, the injection, the spiral I’d been caught in. She listened. And someday after midnight, they let me go.
My spouse picked me up. Quiet. Uncertain. I didn’t blame her. I barely knew what had simply occurred myself.
Later that evening, I sat once more within the chair the place it had all began. My eyes ached much less. However I used to be surprised. And unusually clear.
The expertise hadn’t destroyed me. It had initiated me.
I additionally realized how naïve I’d been. I hadn’t researched alternate options. I hadn’t explored my actual choices. I’d reached for probably the most seen answer out of emotional exhaustion. That desperation wasn’t weak spot—it was a symptom of a deeper want I hadn’t totally acknowledged.
And I discovered one thing I’ll always remember:
Vulnerability is highly effective, but it surely’s not at all times protected.
I used to assume that honesty was at all times one of the best path. That if I opened up, somebody would meet me there with compassion. And infrequently that’s true. However not at all times. Programs aren’t constructed for subtlety. Establishments can’t at all times distinguish between emotional honesty and threat.
And never each particular person is a protected place for our fact. Some individuals repeatedly decrease our ache or dismiss our emotions. We would lengthy for his or her validation, however defending ourselves means recognizing when somebody isn’t keen or capable of give it.
Since then, I’ve stored writing. I’ve stored feeling. However I’ve additionally discovered to be extra discerning.
Now I ask myself:
- Is that this the precise second for this fact?
- Is that this particular person or house capable of maintain it?
- Am I in search of connection—or rescue?
There’s no disgrace in needing assist. However there’s knowledge in studying the best way to ask for it, and who to ask.
I nonetheless consider in reality. I nonetheless consider in tenderness. However I additionally consider in studying the best way to shield what’s sacred inside us.
So for those who’re somebody who feels deeply—who writes, displays, or breaks open in surprising methods—that is what I would like you to know:
You aren’t weak. You aren’t damaged. However you might be tender. And tenderness wants care, not containment—care from individuals you’ll be able to belief to honor it.
Give your fact a spot the place it may be held, not punished. And if that place doesn’t but exist, construct it—beginning with one protected particular person, one trustworthy dialog, one web page in your journal. Phrase by phrase. Breath by breath.
As a result of your ache is actual. Your voice issues.
And when shared with care, your fact can nonetheless mild the best way.
About Tony Collins
Tony Collins is a documentary filmmaker, educator, and author whose work explores creativity, caregiving, and private development. He’s the creator of: Home windows to the Sea—a transferring assortment of essays on love, loss, and presence. Inventive Scholarship—a information for educators and artists rethinking how artistic work is valued. Tony writes to mirror on what issues—and to assist others really feel much less alone.