On Vulnerability and Cliff Jumping

When I decided to start this blog, I did so only thinking in a very abstract sense that people would actually read it. I knew that there were humans out there in the world, and I knew that a very small percentage of those humans might possibly come across and read my words. When I spoke of my experiences and feelings, it felt easy to do so because the mediated communication of a computer and the Internet means that, since I am not directly interacting with anyone else, and I would never know who, if anyone, is seeing what I'm writing, it is almost like I'm writing in a journal rather than in a public forum.


Then I started receiving a few emails on Facebook from friends, family, and acquaintances about how "brave" I am to put my story out there and share these deep, private (and often dark) things. I was thanked several times by people I've never met for giving words to their feelings, for echoing their beliefs, for bringing light (even if only a little) to their own suffering. It warmed my heart to discover, very unexpectedly, that I was actually helping others, but I still shook my head in incredulous awe. I was just writing. I didn't see it as "brave" or "courageous" at all. It just was what it was, words typed out on a computer screen. I mean, they meant and mean something to me, but it is very easy to stop there since the screen in front of me serves as a wall that I cannot see past.

A couple things happened in the past couple weeks that have made me rethink this bravery thing. In my "decade and a half of hell" posts, I recounted a time in my life I am not proud of, a time wherein I treated lots of people very badly because of what was going on inside my head. I felt like I got a lot of things off my chest in writing those posts. I breathed deeply when I saw all those hundreds of words I had typed and interpreted them all as symbols of my healing process.

Then I got a message from someone who had been a part of my selfishness and self-hate, someone who, for lack of a better term, had been one of my victims in my 20's. I immediately felt self-conscious and vulnerable. Naked. Discovered. Seen. Found out. Someone, a very real someone, now knew what had been going on in my head while I strung him along and held him at bay. The gig, as it were, was up. So much guilt washed over me as I was forced to realize that this was someone who was now aware of the complete truth about me. To his eternal credit, he was empathetic and compassionate, but I was still left shaken at my being discovered (a rather odd thing when you think about it, since I'm writing a blog and all).

The next big shock came when I got a message from a friend of one of my ex-boyfriends. I saw the name in my inbox and had a minor heart attack. "Oh no... I've offended his good friend. She'll think I've trash-talked him. She'll tell him what a jerk I am. Now he'll read the post and he'll hate me too." etc. Before opening the message, I went into the bathroom to fill up my glass of water. Calm down, I said to myself. You know you have a tendency to always assume the worst. You know that things tend not to be what you make them out to be. And this was exactly the case. The message was beautiful, one that I will probably re-read whenever I'm having a bad day.

But here's the kicker: It had been fine to "air my dirty laundry" as long as I only thought in an abstract sense about people seeing it. I was okay knowing that my family was reading my blog because most of the things I was talking about didn't directly affect them; they were just getting a more complete picture of my past and inner workings. But there are people reading my blog who actually know me! There are people reading my blog who knew me very intimately in a time when I was a very different person than I am now. And now those people know that I used them, that I used their friends maybe, that I used their loved ones maybe. I actually considered, in my thankfully-brief existential crisis, deleting several posts I had published. I got really scared. The vulnerability was almost too much.

Later, while I was driving in my car, having a counseling session with myself--I'm really good at those--I realized that this vulnerability was a necessary part of my journey. I did bad things to people, and it is not enough that I type those things on a blog on the chance that people who were directly affected by my actions might or might not ever see my confession. Right now I feel brave. It seems so utterly crazy, but continuing this blog from here on out is what will take bravery. The other day, my blog passed 5,000 views. I smiled and patted myself on the back. Way to go, Justin. I had watched the ticker slowly work its way up, and I loved seeing the number get bigger each day, each week. But it was just a number being increased by mostly faceless creatures out there in Internet Land.

Surprise! They're real. And they know you, Justin.

So this is what it feels like to be metaphorically naked. It's disarming, for sure. It's unnerving. But I cannot just run away and hide. So...

To those who were directly affected by my actions: I am sincerely sorry for mistreating you. I was blind to the hurt I was causing you and was focused only on alleviating the hurt I was feeling myself. I cannot change the things I did or said; I cannot take them back. I am profoundly sorry if your feelings are now hurt again, if old wounds are reopened, knowing what was really going on in my head, knowing that I made up excuses and rationalizations and lies to cover up my own shame. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness. I heard once that saying you're sorry means that you will never do the thing that necessitated the apology ever again. This is definitely the case with me. I will never go back to the person I was then.

To those who know people who were hurt by me: I know that one of the hardest things in life is to watch someone you love get hurt. I know how difficult it is to stand by, feeling helpless, knowing that you aren't supposed to get too involved. I am so sorry I hurt your loved ones. Many of you welcomed me into your homes and your lives and your families. Some of you I loved dearly. Some of you helped me through some very tough times. There are not words enough to express my gratitude to you. Nor are there ample words to express the sorrow I feel at having mistreated someone you love.

To those I've e-met since starting this blog: Thank you so much for reading my blog. Thank you for reaching out to me and telling me your own stories. Thank you for giving this blog of mine deeper meaning and purpose. I've begun meeting a few of you through emails, and I can't thank you enough for your friendship. I'm sorry for thinking at first that you weren't real. It's so exciting to discover that there are others out there who have gone through or are currently going through things that are similar to me. Your encouragement and support are continuous bright lights in my life. It is my sincere hope that I can meet you all in person one day.


Vulnerability is a scary thing; it is no wonder that the Latin root of the word means "to wound." It's terrifying--I know!!--to be exposed, to open yourself up to being ridiculed, scorned, hated, mocked, or laughed at. Humans are experts at lying to themselves. I spent years and years forcing what I saw as perfectly logical justifications on all the things I did. Anything to avoid feeling vulnerable. We don't want to be the one to approach that guy or girl we like. We don't want to be the first to say, "I love you." We don't want to ask for that raise at work. We don't want to tell someone that he or she has hurt our feelings with some mindless thing he or she said. We don't want to use our real name. We want to hide our faces in our pictures. We are ultimately afraid of the censure of others because our own inner shame tells us that we are deserving of censure.

I am FAR from being any sort of expert on vulnerability, or shame for that matter. But I know that I have acknowledged the role that shame played in my life, and I have now acknowledged that I am completely vulnerable. (If you knew how much this post has been reread and revised and reread and revised, you would know just how vulnerable I feel and how scary that feeling is.)

I have a secret to share with you, a little known fact, something that I never knew until very recently. We all have an invisible pair of wings. We stand at the edge of the cliff, sometimes for years and years. We psych ourselves out. We swing our arms and bend our knees and take deep breaths, getting ready to jump, but we never do because we envision ourselves only being able to flap and flail our arms like an idiot as we plummet to the ground and die. The crazy thing about those wings we have is that they don't pop out until we jump. When we do, after we get past that initial shock and terror, we discover that we are actually flying, that the freedom that follows that shock and terror is infinitely better than the years of psyching ourselves out on the edge of that cliff. The wings take a while to get used to: teaching yourself to fly is not easy at first. But fly, we do; fly, we all can. And so I encourage you all to jump. I promise you that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that will prevent those huge, beautiful wings from unfurling. There is no obstacle, no matter how wide or tall, that your wings will not enable you fly over. I promise.

I’m drifting closer towards the sky line,

Looking down on my life, trying to get just one thing right.

The second I stop second guessing,

Let go like a confession,

Seeing what I was born to find

Flying for the first time