Amazing!
Monday, January 13, 2014
"The Healing Power Of Art"
The Healing Power of Art.
If you have ever recognized your own thoughts and experiences in a piece of art or felt as if you were connected somehow to a fictional character, you already know how influential art can be. What you might not have realized is that art can also help break down the barriers and stigma that can divide and isolate us, and that creating art for yourself can even help to heal your mind and body. Many people have experienced these healing powers of art throughout history, and there is more than enough reason to believe that using your own creativity can help keep you healthy today.
Personal works created by people who were driven simply by the need to express themselves show us how important exploring our creative sides can be. Some of the earliest and most moving examples of people using creativity to heal are found in the Prinzhorn Collection in Germany. It includes the work of about 450 people, all of whom were living in psychiatric institutions between 1880 and 1920, and it gives us a unique insight into what life was like for these artists. The collection even inspired professionals such as Picasso, Max Ernst, and Paul Klee. One of the most famous and interesting pieces is the hospital jacket that was tailored and embroidered by Agnes Richter. The jacket is covered with intricate strings of words, of which only small passages are now readable. Even though we can't tell exactly what Richter wanted to say, it is clear she felt the urge to record her own story and express herself with the only materials she had on hand: a needle and thread. She was not given the chance to write or paint or encouraged to find unique ways of understanding herself, but she managed to create a beautiful record of her own story anyway.
Creative endeavors were rarely encouraged for people suffering from trauma or illness in Richter’s time. In some cases, doctors misguidedly even tried to prevent those in their care from writing or painting. Charlotte Perkins Gilman's short story “The Yellow Wallpaper,” written in 1892, around the same time that Agnes Richter was embroidering her jacket, describes this sort of experience. Gilman hoped that in writing about the treatment from the patient's perspective, she would be able to convince doctors of the harm such methods cause. The much-discussed story made a strong case that has helped affect attitudes toward art in medicine.
It is partly due to artists like Gilman and Richter that the importance of creativity has now been recognized—but it often takes science to provoke real change. Psychologists like Professor Jamie Pennebaker have produced necessary research, which is enough to show even the most reluctant artist that the power of expression goes much further than we might expect. Pennebaker asked people to write about their most upsetting and traumatic experiences in a journal, and then measured the effects. He found that spending just 15 minutes a day writing for four days produced significant increases in wellbeing, even when the journals were kept private. He also noticed there was a shift in the type of language the writers were using. At the beginning, they were very focused on their own emotions, with sentences based on “I” and “me”. Toward the end, people were writing more thoughtfully, trying to understand what had really happened, and talking about “we” and “us,” rather than just themselves. Pennebaker found reliable scientific proof of the ability of art to strengthen people and help build empathy, community, and human connection.
Many modern artists continue to pull inspiration from their darkest days and show others that we are not alone when we feel at our worst. The artist Bobby Baker documented her experiences of mental illness, self-harm, and cancer in a journal filled with images that expressed her conflicted self-image, while cartoonist Ally Brosh used her illustrations as a means of explaining her depression to other people. Works like these have helped break down barriers and encourage discussion of serious issues like mental health and self-injury, while also helping the artists heal.
Because of examples like the ones above, creative therapies have now become part of the treatment for many sorts of illnesses. Doctors in some parts of the world even recommend art as an essential part of treatment for patients diagnosed with mental illnesses like schizophrenia. Expression of all types, from writing to dance, drama to painting, has been used to help people deal with negative emotions and symptoms. People have used art therapy to overcome traumatic experiences and PTSD or to cope with addiction recovery and symptoms of substance abuse, like insomnia and depression. Treatment programs for addiction and mental illness often include the chance to try some art therapy, and for many, this is an opportunity that will play a significant part in their recoveries. It’s increasingly clear that participating in these types of therapies can help to improve both physical health and quality of life.
The best works of art equip us to empathize with people whose worlds may be completely different from our own. They provide a space in which we can explore our own feelings, while at the same time allowing us to communicate these personal experiences—and ultimately, hope—to the people around us. Whether you find yourself in another’s piece or prefer creating your own, don’t underestimate art’s healing power.
How has art had an impact on your mental health? What forms of expression influence you most? Tell us more in the comments below.
Personal works created by people who were driven simply by the need to express themselves show us how important exploring our creative sides can be. Some of the earliest and most moving examples of people using creativity to heal are found in the Prinzhorn Collection in Germany. It includes the work of about 450 people, all of whom were living in psychiatric institutions between 1880 and 1920, and it gives us a unique insight into what life was like for these artists. The collection even inspired professionals such as Picasso, Max Ernst, and Paul Klee. One of the most famous and interesting pieces is the hospital jacket that was tailored and embroidered by Agnes Richter. The jacket is covered with intricate strings of words, of which only small passages are now readable. Even though we can't tell exactly what Richter wanted to say, it is clear she felt the urge to record her own story and express herself with the only materials she had on hand: a needle and thread. She was not given the chance to write or paint or encouraged to find unique ways of understanding herself, but she managed to create a beautiful record of her own story anyway.
Creative endeavors were rarely encouraged for people suffering from trauma or illness in Richter’s time. In some cases, doctors misguidedly even tried to prevent those in their care from writing or painting. Charlotte Perkins Gilman's short story “The Yellow Wallpaper,” written in 1892, around the same time that Agnes Richter was embroidering her jacket, describes this sort of experience. Gilman hoped that in writing about the treatment from the patient's perspective, she would be able to convince doctors of the harm such methods cause. The much-discussed story made a strong case that has helped affect attitudes toward art in medicine.
It is partly due to artists like Gilman and Richter that the importance of creativity has now been recognized—but it often takes science to provoke real change. Psychologists like Professor Jamie Pennebaker have produced necessary research, which is enough to show even the most reluctant artist that the power of expression goes much further than we might expect. Pennebaker asked people to write about their most upsetting and traumatic experiences in a journal, and then measured the effects. He found that spending just 15 minutes a day writing for four days produced significant increases in wellbeing, even when the journals were kept private. He also noticed there was a shift in the type of language the writers were using. At the beginning, they were very focused on their own emotions, with sentences based on “I” and “me”. Toward the end, people were writing more thoughtfully, trying to understand what had really happened, and talking about “we” and “us,” rather than just themselves. Pennebaker found reliable scientific proof of the ability of art to strengthen people and help build empathy, community, and human connection.
Many modern artists continue to pull inspiration from their darkest days and show others that we are not alone when we feel at our worst. The artist Bobby Baker documented her experiences of mental illness, self-harm, and cancer in a journal filled with images that expressed her conflicted self-image, while cartoonist Ally Brosh used her illustrations as a means of explaining her depression to other people. Works like these have helped break down barriers and encourage discussion of serious issues like mental health and self-injury, while also helping the artists heal.
Because of examples like the ones above, creative therapies have now become part of the treatment for many sorts of illnesses. Doctors in some parts of the world even recommend art as an essential part of treatment for patients diagnosed with mental illnesses like schizophrenia. Expression of all types, from writing to dance, drama to painting, has been used to help people deal with negative emotions and symptoms. People have used art therapy to overcome traumatic experiences and PTSD or to cope with addiction recovery and symptoms of substance abuse, like insomnia and depression. Treatment programs for addiction and mental illness often include the chance to try some art therapy, and for many, this is an opportunity that will play a significant part in their recoveries. It’s increasingly clear that participating in these types of therapies can help to improve both physical health and quality of life.
The best works of art equip us to empathize with people whose worlds may be completely different from our own. They provide a space in which we can explore our own feelings, while at the same time allowing us to communicate these personal experiences—and ultimately, hope—to the people around us. Whether you find yourself in another’s piece or prefer creating your own, don’t underestimate art’s healing power.
How has art had an impact on your mental health? What forms of expression influence you most? Tell us more in the comments below.
"On Doing Nothing"
On Doing Nothing.
When we talk about people, we talk about beings who are vastly complex. Every answer we find is met with a deep sigh and the realization that we are still far from solving what makes us truly us. People are patterned, yet never formulaic.
This summer, I met a man named Kevin* who announced his loss to anyone who cared to listen. He wasn’t loud or “Woe is me” about it, but he showed his grief with a quiet sort of boldness. Invitationally. He wore it as a tattered black armband, just gilded enough to catch your eye. He mentioned the band was made from his “wings,” and though I didn’t pursue that further, it seemed to Kevin to be a necessary detail—an inside joke to keep his smirk smoldering, even while his face felt numb.
“I’m wearing this because I’m wounded. This is worn for my partner and me—we didn’t work out.”
He told me he is following a forgotten tradition. He saw a wisdom in how Victorian folk used their clothes to express truths about one’s life. Black garb symbolized loss, and sometimes people would wear black for up to a year. Kevin said he made a commitment a while back that he would be more forthcoming with others and more honest with himself; the armband is a manifestation of that.
I can relate to this loss, and you likely can too. Maybe you did the leaving, or maybe you were left, or maybe it was an agreement. It may have felt more volcanic, violently tectonic. If not earth-shattering, perhaps it was at least a shuffling of plates, finding new faults in places and people we once believed to be whole.
With all this perceived moving and shaking, perhaps Kevin sees his role as simply to stay put, as if waiting for the earth to calm and a blanket of ash to fall. Stillness is a gift, if we care to accept it, but we so often need an outside voice to remind us of this option.
When I look back on the nights that I would self-medicate or self-harm, it was most often driven by this desire to just do something. I felt as if I had to fix whatever chaos was dizzying me, when all along, doing nothing was completely acceptable. By “doing nothing,” I don’t mean being lazy or apathetic; in fact, I mean the opposite. I simply mean being still enough to realize this world is big; still enough to believe every tree is competing to fill my lungs; still enough to accept that whatever is broken, or burnt, or buried, or severed can still be restored; still enough to find comfort in the fact that constellations are still being created. Still ...
When I had had enough, what I really meant was that I was full of all the worst things and lacked an outlet. The option existed all along to just be still and let life happen. Being still doesn’t mean journeying alone. I think it means acknowledging life in the places we most often overlook, watching, being awake to all that is going on, both inside and out.
Even in his stillness, Kevin did rise from that initial pain, and as he rose, he took with him his torn remnants. His wings were diminished to a rag, and for as long as he needs it, it will be the last thing he puts on every morning. In mourning, it is his first conscious thought. And though this blackness is that last thing he ties on, it is also the first thing he sheds every night. One of these days, I believe, he’ll forget to put it back on.
—Chad Moses
*Name is changed to respect the privacy of the individual."Giving Thanks Everyday"
Giving Thanks, Every Day.
Thanksgiving looks a little different for everybody, doesn’t it? Maybe you get up early to see your favorite floats on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Maybe you eat a simple meal with immediate family, or an expansive potluck spread with a large gathering of friends and neighbors. Maybe it calls for intermittent napping during an afternoon of football games. Maybe you wear your favorite sweater, and reminisce under dim lamplight, and go to bed early so you have energy for Black Friday shopping.
Or perhaps your holiday doesn’t so closely resemble the ones in the commercials. Maybe you’re alone. Maybe you’re caught in the crossfire of family estrangement. Maybe Thanksgiving is just another day off of work or school, and you don’t have any special plans. Maybe the money, or the time, or the people just aren’t there to warrant any feasting. Maybe all the celebration is, to you, a stressful nightmare you must fake your way through. Maybe the faces that used to make this day meaningful are no longer around your dining room table.
At TWLOHA, whenever a significant holiday rolls around (and for our supporters in the United States, this is usually considered a significant one), we want to remember and include those whose struggles might trump the warmth of tradition. The truth is, this is the case for a great number of people, and it’s important to acknowledge those experiences. But while our observances of Thanksgiving may vary greatly, there is something that unites us today—and that is our very need to give and receive thanks.
Recently, I watched a short TED Talk from a few years ago by a counselor named Laura Trice. In it, she talks about how vital it is to hear and give praise—and yet, people are often very hesitant to ask for it. She says that, sometimes, the most authentic way to express gratitude is to ask people what kind of praise they need to hear, as well as to tell others the areas in which we need more affirmation. This goes against our instincts, right? It’s a challenge in vulnerability. But Trice suggests, “Be honest about the praise that you need to hear. What do you need to hear? … Go home and ask those questions, and then help the people around you.”
Everybody deserves to be both a recipient and a giver of these simple words: “Thank you.”
Whatever your circumstances are today, you can get that cycle of gratitude going in your own life. It doesn’t have to be a holiday; it doesn’t have to take place around an autumnal centerpiece; it doesn’t have to be perfect. Just start saying thank you. For the roof over your head, and the shoes on your feet, and the food on your plate—say thank you. For the counsel you’ve received from a co-worker, a spouse, a therapist—say thank you. For the things people are simply expected to do, day after day, and do well anyway—say thank you. For the phone or the computer you are reading this on—say thank you. For the long-distance friend who somehow always knows when to text you—say thank you. For the book that changed your life, and the pet that is always excited to see you, and the tutoring session from the classmate who owed you nothing, and the unexpected dollars in the tip jar, and the parent who is trying their absolute hardest, and the stranger who said, “No, after you,” and the sun that somehow, no matter what, slowly and gently wakes the world up each morning—say thank you.
Say thank you.
And then, see how that starts coming back around to you—and maybe ask for it from time to time. Don’t be afraid to say, “I’m doing my best here. Did you notice? I’m growing, I’m trying, I’m moving forward—and I’d love your encouragement along the way.”
If you’ve gotten this far into this blog post, we’d also like to say thank you. Thanks for supporting TWLOHA and believing that people can be more, can get better, can work together. We’re grateful you’re a part of this community we talk so much about. And happy thanks-giving.
"Welcome To Midnight"
Welcome to Midnight.
Welcome back to "Welcome to Midnight." The words below were posted two years ago and while i'm proud of what i wrote, i'm more excited about the words that followed—tweets and posts from folks all over the world, people talking about what they hoped to leave behind and what they hoped to find in the new year. Our hope for Year #3 is to see "Welcome to Midnight" continue to grow. We're rolling up our sleeves and doing our best to make it better than ever. We even made a shirt to celebrate!
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The ball drops and fireworks. Resolutions are made.
People scream and people kiss and is it possible to change?
Is it really truly possible to leave the past behind?
Welcome to Midnight.
Another year comes to a close. Another year begins.
With a moment in between.
Why the fuss?
Why the fame and fireworks?
Is it more than hype? More than something else to sell us?
Is there something to this holiday? Something true inside it?
Because isn't there something inside us that aches for change...
Dreams it to be possible...
To let go.
To hold on.
To leave it behind.
To start again.
To be new.
Is it possible?
If you're reading this, if there's air in your lungs, then you're alive today tonight right now.
And who can know how long we have here...
And is it a gift? Was it ever a gift? Did that ever feel true or could that one day feel true?
Are there things to fight to live for?
Moments and people... Weddings and children and all your different dreams...
Love...
Is your life more than just your own?
And are there broken things you were made to fight to fix?
Broken families, broken friends... Injustice.
Will you move for things that matter?
Wouldn't it be nice if change took just a moment?
Wouldn't it be nice if it were that easy?
Midnight and we're new. Midnight and the past erased. Midnight and we're free.
It seems to come slow. It seems to be a surgery.
Forgiveness. Healing. Sobriety. Letting go. Starting over.
It seems to happen slowly over time.
One day at a time, the choice made new each morning.
Will you fight?
Will you fight to be healthy?
Will you fight to be free?
Will you fight for your story?
Will you fight to get the help you need?
Change takes more than a moment, but maybe there's also something to this celebration of a moment, something to the way it speaks to us, something to the way we fear it, and dream it to be true. Maybe it's the most honest moment of the year.
It's possible to change.
Welcome to Midnight.
Here's to the possibilities.
Peace to You.
jamie
We would love to hear from you. We would love to hear what this blog and these questions spark in you, what you're wrestling with and what you're excited about as that famous midnight approaches.
**********************************************************Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The ball drops and fireworks. Resolutions are made.
People scream and people kiss and is it possible to change?
Is it really truly possible to leave the past behind?
Welcome to Midnight.
Another year comes to a close. Another year begins.
With a moment in between.
Why the fuss?
Why the fame and fireworks?
Is it more than hype? More than something else to sell us?
Is there something to this holiday? Something true inside it?
Because isn't there something inside us that aches for change...
Dreams it to be possible...
To let go.
To hold on.
To leave it behind.
To start again.
To be new.
Is it possible?
If you're reading this, if there's air in your lungs, then you're alive today tonight right now.
And who can know how long we have here...
And is it a gift? Was it ever a gift? Did that ever feel true or could that one day feel true?
Are there things to fight to live for?
Moments and people... Weddings and children and all your different dreams...
Love...
Is your life more than just your own?
And are there broken things you were made to fight to fix?
Broken families, broken friends... Injustice.
Will you move for things that matter?
Wouldn't it be nice if change took just a moment?
Wouldn't it be nice if it were that easy?
Midnight and we're new. Midnight and the past erased. Midnight and we're free.
It seems to come slow. It seems to be a surgery.
Forgiveness. Healing. Sobriety. Letting go. Starting over.
It seems to happen slowly over time.
One day at a time, the choice made new each morning.
Will you fight?
Will you fight to be healthy?
Will you fight to be free?
Will you fight for your story?
Will you fight to get the help you need?
Change takes more than a moment, but maybe there's also something to this celebration of a moment, something to the way it speaks to us, something to the way we fear it, and dream it to be true. Maybe it's the most honest moment of the year.
It's possible to change.
Welcome to Midnight.
Here's to the possibilities.
Peace to You.
jamie
"I am here because i care."
I Am Here Because I Care.
I have never known what it feels like to have depression. I have never personally dealt with self-injury. I don’t know what the experience of an anxiety attack really entails. I don’t know what it is like to be a slave to an addiction. I don’t know—but I care.
At the beginning of my internship with TWLOHA, I questioned seriously if I belonged here. How could I do anything to help others if I didn’t know exactly what it was like to walk through a fight within my own mind? It seemed like everyone else I worked with had gone through something so much bigger than them. They could offer firsthand experience and advice to anyone who asked for it. But how could I ask people to seek counseling when I had never walked into a counselor’s office in my life? How could I share in someone else’s pain when I had never felt it to that degree? I felt like I was an outsider to this experience I could never truly understand. And yet, I was here. And I cared about our cause more than anything. There had to be a reason, there had to be a purpose.
We talk a lot about our stories here, almost constantly. I know the stories of each one of my roommates. If you ask them to tell theirs, they know exactly where to start. “This is what I battled, this is how I fought, this is how I got here.” That’s how it goes. I listen, and I listen. But I never consider myself a storyteller, too. I have always assumed I had nothing to speak of—until I thought long and hard about why I am here and why I left everything to devote my life to this cause this fall.
I am a storyteller, because of the characters who share my journey with me. Early in my life, I developed an identity as a listener and a confidant. It was my instinct to leave my heart open and let anyone rest there if they needed to. I approached every relationship with a hunger to learn people. I learned happiness and hope, but I also learned a lot more about pain and fear.
I am thankful for the pain I learned. By being allowed to know the whole of a person, I can take a chance and fight with them. I treasure each wall I have seen broken down. I hold each story I have heard as a part of my own. They are the most delicate and precious gifts I can ever hope to receive. Knowing the truth and honesty of those around me also means they are healing, and they are trusting me to be in their corner. There is nothing in this life I value more than that. Nothing.
My purpose here is to show people that you don’t necessarily have to encounter these issues directly to be involved in the fight against them. You can still show people who are struggling that they need to give others a chance to fight alongside them. You both deserve to know each other, to know what the other is feeling.
For those of you who are afraid of being a burden to others, especially to those who you think might not understand: I urge you to reconsider. Honesty and truth will strengthen your relationships more than silence ever can. A fake smile will never bring you closer to healing than the embrace of a friend. You are giving a gift by writing your story into the stories of others. You are giving them the chance to love you and to learn from that love.
I know what it is like to love someone with depression. I know the feeling of hugging a friend who struggles through self-injury. I know the experience of watching a family member fight through an anxiety attack. I know what it is like to see someone battle with an addiction. I know the pain of hearing that someone I love would try to end his or her own life. But I have also seen people, in each of these situations, embrace and live in recovery. This has made my relationships meaningful, significant, and true. This has made me care about speaking up and breaking walls.
I care. I am here, because I care.
— Andrea, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
At the beginning of my internship with TWLOHA, I questioned seriously if I belonged here. How could I do anything to help others if I didn’t know exactly what it was like to walk through a fight within my own mind? It seemed like everyone else I worked with had gone through something so much bigger than them. They could offer firsthand experience and advice to anyone who asked for it. But how could I ask people to seek counseling when I had never walked into a counselor’s office in my life? How could I share in someone else’s pain when I had never felt it to that degree? I felt like I was an outsider to this experience I could never truly understand. And yet, I was here. And I cared about our cause more than anything. There had to be a reason, there had to be a purpose.
We talk a lot about our stories here, almost constantly. I know the stories of each one of my roommates. If you ask them to tell theirs, they know exactly where to start. “This is what I battled, this is how I fought, this is how I got here.” That’s how it goes. I listen, and I listen. But I never consider myself a storyteller, too. I have always assumed I had nothing to speak of—until I thought long and hard about why I am here and why I left everything to devote my life to this cause this fall.
I am a storyteller, because of the characters who share my journey with me. Early in my life, I developed an identity as a listener and a confidant. It was my instinct to leave my heart open and let anyone rest there if they needed to. I approached every relationship with a hunger to learn people. I learned happiness and hope, but I also learned a lot more about pain and fear.
I am thankful for the pain I learned. By being allowed to know the whole of a person, I can take a chance and fight with them. I treasure each wall I have seen broken down. I hold each story I have heard as a part of my own. They are the most delicate and precious gifts I can ever hope to receive. Knowing the truth and honesty of those around me also means they are healing, and they are trusting me to be in their corner. There is nothing in this life I value more than that. Nothing.
My purpose here is to show people that you don’t necessarily have to encounter these issues directly to be involved in the fight against them. You can still show people who are struggling that they need to give others a chance to fight alongside them. You both deserve to know each other, to know what the other is feeling.
For those of you who are afraid of being a burden to others, especially to those who you think might not understand: I urge you to reconsider. Honesty and truth will strengthen your relationships more than silence ever can. A fake smile will never bring you closer to healing than the embrace of a friend. You are giving a gift by writing your story into the stories of others. You are giving them the chance to love you and to learn from that love.
I know what it is like to love someone with depression. I know the feeling of hugging a friend who struggles through self-injury. I know the experience of watching a family member fight through an anxiety attack. I know what it is like to see someone battle with an addiction. I know the pain of hearing that someone I love would try to end his or her own life. But I have also seen people, in each of these situations, embrace and live in recovery. This has made my relationships meaningful, significant, and true. This has made me care about speaking up and breaking walls.
I care. I am here, because I care.
— Andrea, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
"I am here because i care."
I Am Here Because I Care.
I have never known what it feels like to have depression. I have never personally dealt with self-injury. I don’t know what the experience of an anxiety attack really entails. I don’t know what it is like to be a slave to an addiction. I don’t know—but I care.
At the beginning of my internship with TWLOHA, I questioned seriously if I belonged here. How could I do anything to help others if I didn’t know exactly what it was like to walk through a fight within my own mind? It seemed like everyone else I worked with had gone through something so much bigger than them. They could offer firsthand experience and advice to anyone who asked for it. But how could I ask people to seek counseling when I had never walked into a counselor’s office in my life? How could I share in someone else’s pain when I had never felt it to that degree? I felt like I was an outsider to this experience I could never truly understand. And yet, I was here. And I cared about our cause more than anything. There had to be a reason, there had to be a purpose.
We talk a lot about our stories here, almost constantly. I know the stories of each one of my roommates. If you ask them to tell theirs, they know exactly where to start. “This is what I battled, this is how I fought, this is how I got here.” That’s how it goes. I listen, and I listen. But I never consider myself a storyteller, too. I have always assumed I had nothing to speak of—until I thought long and hard about why I am here and why I left everything to devote my life to this cause this fall.
I am a storyteller, because of the characters who share my journey with me. Early in my life, I developed an identity as a listener and a confidant. It was my instinct to leave my heart open and let anyone rest there if they needed to. I approached every relationship with a hunger to learn people. I learned happiness and hope, but I also learned a lot more about pain and fear.
I am thankful for the pain I learned. By being allowed to know the whole of a person, I can take a chance and fight with them. I treasure each wall I have seen broken down. I hold each story I have heard as a part of my own. They are the most delicate and precious gifts I can ever hope to receive. Knowing the truth and honesty of those around me also means they are healing, and they are trusting me to be in their corner. There is nothing in this life I value more than that. Nothing.
My purpose here is to show people that you don’t necessarily have to encounter these issues directly to be involved in the fight against them. You can still show people who are struggling that they need to give others a chance to fight alongside them. You both deserve to know each other, to know what the other is feeling.
For those of you who are afraid of being a burden to others, especially to those who you think might not understand: I urge you to reconsider. Honesty and truth will strengthen your relationships more than silence ever can. A fake smile will never bring you closer to healing than the embrace of a friend. You are giving a gift by writing your story into the stories of others. You are giving them the chance to love you and to learn from that love.
I know what it is like to love someone with depression. I know the feeling of hugging a friend who struggles through self-injury. I know the experience of watching a family member fight through an anxiety attack. I know what it is like to see someone battle with an addiction. I know the pain of hearing that someone I love would try to end his or her own life. But I have also seen people, in each of these situations, embrace and live in recovery. This has made my relationships meaningful, significant, and true. This has made me care about speaking up and breaking walls.
I care. I am here, because I care.
— Andrea, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
At the beginning of my internship with TWLOHA, I questioned seriously if I belonged here. How could I do anything to help others if I didn’t know exactly what it was like to walk through a fight within my own mind? It seemed like everyone else I worked with had gone through something so much bigger than them. They could offer firsthand experience and advice to anyone who asked for it. But how could I ask people to seek counseling when I had never walked into a counselor’s office in my life? How could I share in someone else’s pain when I had never felt it to that degree? I felt like I was an outsider to this experience I could never truly understand. And yet, I was here. And I cared about our cause more than anything. There had to be a reason, there had to be a purpose.
We talk a lot about our stories here, almost constantly. I know the stories of each one of my roommates. If you ask them to tell theirs, they know exactly where to start. “This is what I battled, this is how I fought, this is how I got here.” That’s how it goes. I listen, and I listen. But I never consider myself a storyteller, too. I have always assumed I had nothing to speak of—until I thought long and hard about why I am here and why I left everything to devote my life to this cause this fall.
I am a storyteller, because of the characters who share my journey with me. Early in my life, I developed an identity as a listener and a confidant. It was my instinct to leave my heart open and let anyone rest there if they needed to. I approached every relationship with a hunger to learn people. I learned happiness and hope, but I also learned a lot more about pain and fear.
I am thankful for the pain I learned. By being allowed to know the whole of a person, I can take a chance and fight with them. I treasure each wall I have seen broken down. I hold each story I have heard as a part of my own. They are the most delicate and precious gifts I can ever hope to receive. Knowing the truth and honesty of those around me also means they are healing, and they are trusting me to be in their corner. There is nothing in this life I value more than that. Nothing.
My purpose here is to show people that you don’t necessarily have to encounter these issues directly to be involved in the fight against them. You can still show people who are struggling that they need to give others a chance to fight alongside them. You both deserve to know each other, to know what the other is feeling.
For those of you who are afraid of being a burden to others, especially to those who you think might not understand: I urge you to reconsider. Honesty and truth will strengthen your relationships more than silence ever can. A fake smile will never bring you closer to healing than the embrace of a friend. You are giving a gift by writing your story into the stories of others. You are giving them the chance to love you and to learn from that love.
I know what it is like to love someone with depression. I know the feeling of hugging a friend who struggles through self-injury. I know the experience of watching a family member fight through an anxiety attack. I know what it is like to see someone battle with an addiction. I know the pain of hearing that someone I love would try to end his or her own life. But I have also seen people, in each of these situations, embrace and live in recovery. This has made my relationships meaningful, significant, and true. This has made me care about speaking up and breaking walls.
I care. I am here, because I care.
— Andrea, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
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