Yesterday was a wonderful day. I met a friend and we went for a leisurely walk. During the walk we had a conversation, one that was extremely frank. There’s something to be said for the freedom to be frank, to be completely open, in a conversation. It provides a liberty that we so very often deny ourselves.
It seems odd to consider the day wonderful given the nature of our conversation. We were opening up to each other, baring ourselves, discussing our struggles with suicidal ideations. But to be able to express ourselves without taboo, without judgement, was so cathartic. For myself, I felt an ease, a relaxation throughout my whole person as the burden of the thoughts was shifted, even if only for a moment. In sharing, I changed the hold the thoughts were having upon me.
I’ve thought about that conversation, about its subject, about its honesty, and I realized that this blog provides me with the same ability. Here, I can have a conversation that’s just as frank, just as honest. Just as my friend and I shared our struggles with ideations, I share in like fashion with you.
It’s this openness that propels my writing. I don’t profess to be a sage, someone with all the answers. I’m just a guy with a chronic mental illness. I get it. I get the self-doubt, the overwhelming weight of the darkness, the seeming futility of it all. I get that I was so very fortunate to find a way out. I get that not everyone feels as I do, wants to take the path I took. But there’s always that one lost soul that’s looking for a way out, and if my writing can provide a light, it’s all worth it.
That person deserves my honesty. To be circumspect does him or her a disservice.
But that’s not my only audience. This blog is my letter to my son. He too deserves my honesty in all its ugliness, for that honesty gives him solace. He knows that so long as I keep talking, I’m safe. It’s my silence that’s dangerous, not my conversation.