All the Words We Don’t Say

In one of the many books I keep stacked beside my bed, the author talks about the value of talking through a problem.  The value of naming a sadness.

Which has me thinking.  About that.  About other places I’ve read similar ideas and thoughts.

About processing and talking and sharing and explaining and All The Words We Say.

The idea being that somehow talking about and giving verbal space for a sadness and a grief gives it both a reality and a vulnerability.  A place to heal and a place to pass away from in the direction of moving on.

Does that make sense?

It really does to me.

Why don’t people talk about what bothers them?

Why don’t people share the darkest or the scariest or the hardest or the weirdest or the saddest?

Who benefits from All The Silence?

This.  This is something I think about a lot.

I think silence is not the solution.

Silence can be oppressive.  And it always has a cost that is heavy and enduring.

I don’t want to participate in the silence.

In fact, I refuse to.

(And I hope it is understood that I am not advocating a free wheeling, irresponsible kind of chatter and disrespectful banter.  I’m not talking about words to overcompensate or words to make others feel bad or words that destroy.)

The only kind of words that set you free are the words of truth.

It is the telling of your story that gives you perspective.  It is the talking of your experiences that allows you a healthy sense of distance and a solid dose of “I can endure this pain.”

Words allow you to process and to make sense and to arrange the details of your suffering in a semi-logical formation that helps the hurt to be a tiny bit less.

With each repeated telling of your story, you are able to gain distance and insight and a bigger picture.

When my sweet friends ask me for the highs and the lows of my day and I ask them about theirs, I want some truth to be exchanged.

When you ask me how I am, I’m going to tell you.

I guarantee that my answers will sometimes make you less comfortable than you were before you asked.

You might want to hang out a little less often with me or you may turn down a different aisle when you see me coming.  (And, with my entourage, you will always see me coming.)

That’s fine with me.

Pardon my lack of polite sensitivity when I say, 

whatever.

I’m not talking about Embracing Rude.

I’m talking about Speaking Truth and I am one hundred percent confident that truth can be spoken in love.

It’s a language I’ve flopped through and maybe it’s harder than the tricky Bengali Hilary is embracing, but I believe that it is possible.

Either way, I’m done dealing in the language of fear or silence.  

I’m naming my griefs.  I’m rehashing and sorting out loud and I’m collecting friends who can handle my junk and who dump their own junk right back into my lap as readily as I offer mine.

I’ll look you straight in the eyes and tell you what kind of day I’ve had.

And I absolutely expect you to do the same.

And if you choose not to, if you want to carry that mess around with you, that’s your choice.  But I doubt you and I will be speaking the same language for very long if you refuse to claim your sorrows and your joys and air them out to give them less power.

Talking leads to empathy and empathy leads to shared burdens and shared burdens lead to hope.

And hope is the trajectory I am choosing.