I was feeling bloody out of it the other day with a rough hangover, and talking to my brother who is just about the only person I talk with these days. I said things that he was not keen in hearing.
Like, we've known each other for decades and still don't know much really about each other.
There's so much inner life and experience that rarely get formulated into spoken words. It can find a place in writing more easily.
Anyway, his discomfort was second place to my need to say some things.
Like, I've pretty much had social phobia forever, can't stand the telephone either, and even he doesn't really see that for what it is, nobody quite sees your anxiety, do they? They just see your behavior, and may never know the reason for it, just as you see others act, and don't always know why they behave as they do.
It can open up wounds and vulnerabilities, talking and listening to such things. We've had so much illness and pain in our family, and as middle aged men we are burned out from it, tired of traumatic events, feeling compassion fatigue like health workers often do.
Empathy is not boundless, and we all have our storage of hurts and sorrows. Many wounds are still sore and it's scary to expose them lest they hurt even more. To speak of trauma is to relive it somewhat. That's not a happy prospect usually. Especially for men. You know, tough guys and all that nonsense.
At the same time we'd like to heal, and never opening up is neurotic. People use drugs, alcohol, food, whatever to ease a pain. Pets are good.
Stigma will persist because this stuff is frightening and painful and unpredictable. Mental illness is a nightmare. Nobody likes nightmares. We all want to feel safe and secure and comfortable. Most of us, I suppose, are just not fully capable of speaking openly to each other, and listening well, about something we consider a nightmare, though talking can shrink a monster quickly.