Communicating in the Most Awkward Way Possible
In my 18 years on Earth, I still have not figured out how to express my more troubling concerns to my family. I’ve tried screaming and crying (but that really stopped working in middle school). I’ve tried the silent treatment and waiting in my room for my mom to magically understand what was wrong (that has yet to work). I’ve tried leaving notes for my parents, and that has come close to having a serious and honest conversation. But those conversations were easier than the others I’ve needed to have. While it can still be difficult, it is easier to have a conversation about a topic that my parents are familiar with than the ones that my parents have no idea exist.
Since I can remember, I’ve been known to have my “witching hour”. This consisted of extreme silliness and laughing. As I got older, I began to understand my “witching hour” much more. I could control it - and it got my attention from my parents. The highs of giggling and silliness quickly switched to lows of tears and anger. It made me hate myself. This mixed with the regular panic attacks, racing thoughts, body hate, shame, and guilt led me to seek out therapy. So one day, I said to my mom “I think I want to see a therapist - because, you know, you and Daddy got divorced and his girlfriend is abusive.” Of course, my parents divorce was hard but it was something I processed on my own and I had plenty of people to vent and complain to about my dad’s girlfriend (include my father himself). What I really wanted was to sit on a couch, blurt out everything that was wrong with me, have a therapist diagnose me, break the news to my parents, and then give me a magical pill to make it all go away.
Several years and three therapists later, I was able to tell my mom that I wanted to see someone for the issues I actually cared about. I was diagnosed with anxiety, given medicine, and was doing great. Then, a few months after I stopped going to therapy (for a few reasons), I had my fourth serious suicidal thought. Not attempt, just thought. Of course, it would be much worse if I had actually attempted, but it would be better if I didn’t think about it at all. This led to a very long day of numbness, of depression. My mom let me stay home from school to catch up on some things but I did nothing all day. When I was starting to feel better, starting to be more concerned than content with the numbness, I wanted to tell my mom what was the matter. She was peeling wallpaper off of the walls in the basement. I stood next to her, wrapped in a blanket. She asked “what can I do for you,” the way that she does. Not swarming you with questions and concern but not cold enough where you know she doesn’t actually care. I told her that I needed her to be patient. She looked at me, confused. I stood there for a while, trying to get the words out. I told her that I felt depressed, numb. She said she understood.
The next day, I wrote about what happened. I thought about how awful it would be if she found out that her daughter was worse than she thought. That her daughter thought about things that my family has too much experience with. So the next day, I told my mom all about this article that I wanted to write. About how you have to sit someone down, give them a warning for what they are about to hear. Something like “I want to tell you something but don’t freak out because I’m actually totally fine even though it might not sound like it.” Something like “Although I sometimes think about ending my life, I will not actually do it. I just need the mental illness to write about it and I promise that I will never do it because I love you.” What I’ve learned from my terribly-communicative family is that sometimes, you just have to sit someone down, tell them not to talk until you are done, and tell them whatever it is you need to tell them. And keep talking until you believe you have fully explained yourself. That conversation with my mom was one-sided for about ten minutes and full of repetition, contradicting statements, and over-explanations. But by the end, I believe that we were on the same page. It’s hard to tell people things that you know will make them upset or angry, but warning them and clearly setting expectations can be a big help in making those conversations end well.
