Brave

I remember the day I finally decided to wake up from the daze and live. I was at one of the lowest points of my entire life and I was laying in my bed like a catatonic vegetable. I hadn't moved in days. A friend walked into my room and pulled the covers off of me. I lay there unphased. She stood there and firmly talked into my face, "Rachel, get your butt up. We are going to do laundry right now and you are coming with me. Please..."

In my mind I was thinking that I had just done laundry the day before. I literally lay there living in this false pretense. My friend continued saying, "Rach, you haven't done laundry in three weeks. Come on, hon. Let's go." Those words jolted me from my state of unconsciousness. three weeks. I sat up and looked across from me at my toothpaste-stained mirror. I didn't recognize me. There was no color in my face and my hair was a crazed mess. All around me were piles of dirty laundry. Suddenly I knew that there was something wrong and I couldn't let it over-run my life.

As we sat in the damp, humid air of the communal laundry room, I could feel my whole life spinning out of control. The cyclical hum of the machines made my head spin and I felt as if I was going to vomit. We had been sitting on the floor for over ten minutes and the thought of finally letting someone into my heart was sickening. Yet, as I took a deep breath and let the words escape my mouth, I just couldn't stop. I started telling her how I wasn't happy; how I hadn't been happy for a long time. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't be happy. By this point, I was crying. Crying as I told her my deepest darkest fears, regrets, and anxieties. Crying as I told her that I was afraid that something was wrong; afraid that I might actually have depression. I couldn't function anymore. I was terrified to tell my parents. I didn't think I could see a doctor, because then it would show up on my medical bills home. I was afraid that nobody would believe me. I was even afraid that I wouldn't have depression, because then there was absolutely no hope. For four hours, I cried to her in the laundry room, earning puzzled and empathetic looks from outside sources. As we talked, I knew what the answer would be: time to buck up. Time to face the music and take the next step. For I had already taken one step: admitting.

It wasn't easy for me to tell anyone, and to this day it still isn't. When people try to understand where I am coming from, I usually shut them out. It isn't easy being vulnerable and imperfect. You so desperately want people to see the forced, fake mask of who you are. Letting people in is probably the scariest thing I have ever done. But in order to go through the cathartic process of healing, you have to let people help you; you have to offer up your vulnerabilities. 

Say what you want to say and let the words fall out. Be brave. Be honest. Let them in.