Words, Words, Words
By Sarah Callender | December 14, 2016 |
This past March, a man climbed an enormous sequoia tree in downtown Seattle. Refusing to come down, he threw branches, pine cones, an apple and other debris onto the police below. He stayed there for more than twenty-four hours, and by the time he descended, he had stripped many branches from the upper half of the tree. The damage to the sequoia was assessed at $7800, not including the cost of the time and resources used by the Seattle Police and Fire Departments.
The next day, I heard someone on the radio refer to this man as “the whackjob in the tree.”
Such casual use of this word, “whackjob,” delivered the one-two punch to my gut and to my heart. As someone with a diagnosis of Bipolar 2 (Bipolar Disorder being the condition formerly known as Manic Depression), I think quite a lot about how the language we use to describe those with a mental health condition allows us to ignore the hurt, marginalization, helplessness and hopelessness felt by those who struggle. Oh, the power of words.
And then the election happened. The day the results came out, one of my most articulate and liberal friends expressed horribly offensive words about certain groups of people via social media. Meanwhile one of my dear, conservative relatives expressed horribly offensive words about other certain groups of people, also via social media. The caustic, hostile, unproductive language used by both sides upset me tremendously.
Oh, the power of words.
One week after the election, I had the opportunity to speak to eighty people at my church about how we might begin to better see, care for and love those who have a mental health condition. I asked the audience to generate a list of words our culture uses to describe those of us with “fragile wiring.” In just a few minutes, we had at least fifty words: bonkers, dangerous, nutters, unpredictable, violent, deranged, nutjob, cuckoo, homeless, scary, disheveled …
There was not one positive word on our list. Nothing suggesting anything close to the adjectives I might use to describe those of us who have a mental health condition: creative, sensitive, empathetic, insightful, artistic, boundary-pushing, brave, deep-feeling …
I took a breath and collected myself. It was then that I understood the true power we have as word lovers and sentence crafters. And as you know, with great power comes great responsibility.
Check it out:
Sarah is a whackjob.
Sarah is crazy.
Sarah is mentally ill.
Sarah has a mental illness.
Sarah has a mental health condition.
Sarah lives with a mental health condition.
The distance between “Sarah is a whackjob,” and “Sarah lives with a mental health condition,” is as wide as the distance between California and South Carolina.
Words, I believe, are the single best way to bridge gaps and peacefully increase social justice. And as luck would have it, everyone who makes up the WU community is pretty darn good with words.
But why is fiction–beautiful, skillfully crafted lies–just as powerful as words? Is a story written by me or you really so significant in the scope of things? Does every story really matter?
Yep and absolutely.
Every person on the planet wants to feel seen, heard and understood. Fiction does that. Fiction also helps readers experience this truth: all humans are far more alike than different. In fact in this Boston Globe article, it seems that fiction–even more than non-fiction–helps us see and hear people who seem so different:
[R]esearch consistently shows that fiction does mold us. The more deeply we are cast under a story’s spell, the more potent its influence. In fact, fiction seems to be more effective at changing beliefs than nonfiction, which is designed to persuade through argument and evidence. Studies show that when we read nonfiction, we read with our shields up. We are critical and skeptical. But when we are absorbed in a story, we drop our intellectual guard. We are moved emotionally, and this seems to make us rubbery and easy to shape.
Being rubbery doesn’t make us wishy-washy. It gives us opportunities to see how other people struggle, to see how we all seek and deserve the same things, how–and this is most important of all–we (I, you, the man in the sequoia, the crabby U.S. Postal Service employee, the neighbor who drives me, well, bonkers) are all doing the best we can.
Recently, I have been watching Glee with my kids. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I love musicals, and I love that there’s a character in a wheelchair, a character with Down’s Syndrome, several gay characters, a character with obsessive-compulsive disorder. This fictional high school is filled with people who are “different” yet they are just like everyone else. Fiction–whether it’s Shakespeare or network television–reminds The Normal that The Different are not so different. And that there’s really no such thing as The Normal. Fiction also reminds The Different that they are not alone. Or even very different.
For example?
A while back, as I was out walking the puppy and listening to My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry by Fredrik Backman, I burst into tears. My grandmother had recently died, and it felt so good to listen to a story where even an imaginary little girl in a story written by a Swedish man shared a similar sadness and loss. Such comfort.
Reading Shelter in Place by Alexander Maksik, a story about a young man with bipolar disorder, I was reminded that while many in my life can’t understand what it’s like to have the brain I do, there are some who do understand. How comforting.
Watching Game of Thrones reminds me that even on my worst parenting days, I am not as bad a mom as Cersei Lannister. And that brings me comfort.
Lumbering along on crutches for the last four weeks after foot surgery, I have fallen several times, the most public fall happening at the dog park while the pup was still on his leash. I could not hold on to him and retrieve my fallen crutch and hoist myself up. And I had landed in a puddle. People stared at me. I was embarrassed by my floundering. I was mad that no one helped me. I was just as mad that I needed the help of strangers. A bit later, I remembered the protagonist, Jude, in A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara. Because Jude walks with a considerable limp and unbearable pain, he too experiences humiliating falls in public. He is simultaneously mortified by his own neediness and desperate for others’ compassion. My muddy tush and I took solace in the fact that we all fall, and we all have to find a way to hoist ourselves back up to standing. Jude’s story turned my embarrassment into humility. Comfort indeed.
In a profession with so many hurdles (completing a novel, crafting query letters, self publishing books, seeking agents, finding a traditional publisher, marketing the novel, dealing with frequent rejection, persevering …) we must remember that our words and our stories help readers feel seen and heard.
Our words and stories foster the empathy that helps us understand there may not be such a wide gap between us after all, that California and South Carolina aren’t quite as different as we think, that we are all connected, living in the same beautiful, complex, knotted web, all of us doing the best we can to do the best we can. What comfort.
Your turn! Will you share a work of fiction that has made you feel seen and heard? Or a work of fiction that has impacted your ability to hope and thrive? Where have you seen the power (for better or for worse) of words?
Photo compliments of Flickr’s Oskarl Niltamo.
[coffee]
A Middle Grade novelist (and Middle School English teacher), Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her family. Because Sarah dislikes cleaning anything that will just get messy again, she tidies the house and weeds the yard only when absolutely necessary. This allows her time to focus on her true–and somewhat fraught–passions: writing, Abe Lincoln, and Tony’s Chocolonely chocolate bars. Equally passionate about mental health advocacy, Sarah is a member of The Stability Network. Sarah’s first novel, LUCY IN BETWEEN, will be published by Margaret Ferguson Books/Holiday House in 2026.
Oh Sarah, I would be mad too about the falling, the evidence of crutches, an eager puppy, and no one helping. And I hope that were I at the scene of a similar incident, my compassion would outwin my fear of helping an unknown stranger.
Thank you for sharing these words. And for literally demonstrating how big of a gulf there is in how we describe friends as opposed to describing “others” that we prefer to keep at a 39-foot pole distance.
Thank YOU, Lisa, for your sweet empathy. I feel a little bad because when I took the pup to the dog park yesterday, I had three people offer to help me open the gate, close the gate, help get the dog into the car. Apparently more empathetic people attend dog parks on Tuesdays. There is hope!
I have a very liberal friend who is refusing to read the book, Hillbilly Elegy, because she doesn’t want to know anything about “those people” … people who would vote for a fellow like Trump. Sigh. It’s hard to be human.
Really, we’re all such messy bundles.
Thank you for being here this morning!
Beautiful essay, Sarah. Words have the power to heal or to hurt, even kill. I read and eye-opening book by William Brennan: Dehumanizing the Vulnerable. How Word Games Take Lives. Although an older book, it’s still relevant today. He wrote another book that is much more comprehensive: Confronting the Language Empowering the Culture of Death. This book has helped me to see how little ole me can try to use the right words to promote a culture of life.
Isn’t it amazing how people do not see the gifts of the people who are different than they are? For example, I’ve known several people with Down Syndrome, with varying abilities. But one thing in common is their tremendous capacity for joy. And some are so beautiful and innocent, they could never even commit a sin. They are holier than any of us could ever hope to be.
Thank you, Vijaya, for this. I love your words, “a culture of life.” So beautiful and so true!
I have two friends, who, upon learning that their babies had Down’s, really struggled to find the joy in the perceived challenges and uncertainty of having a child with special needs. It’s amazing to see how easily they have found the joy … their sons simply ooze love, compassion and optimism.
Thank you for those book titles! I will see about getting my hands on those.
Bless you! ;)
Sarah, thank you. Your post resonates with me. As a person who lives with Chronic Depression, I experience some of what you speak, and, for almost three years, I was a person with a disability. I walked with crutches and a leg brace. Regarding my depression, and attendant quirkiness, I’ve been called Wackadoo, and I still find myself falling at inopportune moments when my leg gives out. I believe my life experiences are a vehicle to help me see, understand, and connect. I have a choice when I am in my depression. To remain there, in a vacuous bleak space, or to drag myself back to the light, my life richer and deeper in meaning. No-one can understand my perception, but I can use words to assist them in understanding. My work of fiction is one of hope and of thriving, of over-coming obstacles, and I have a deep mine to draw from. I agree with you, “there is not such a wide gap between us” for when I am open, and curious, I learn everyone is on their own journey fraught with their own flavour of challenges.
Thank you, Brin, for sharing.
I agree 100% that the challenges you mention give us a deep compassion and empathy for others. I try to explain that in fact there are gifts that come with mental health conditions, and that is one of them: we get to feel deeply. I think our world is more vivid (and yes, painful) than the worlds of others. I don’t think I would trade in my brain for a healthier one … of course I am in a stable place right now so that’s easier to say. :)
Three cheers for wackadoo and unpredictable legs!
Thank you for taking the time to write, Brin. I got a little teary as I read your comment, not from sadness but because I know you know me. And you know I know you.
:)
This—>” Every person on the planet wants to feel seen, heard and understood.” So, so true.
I am in the thick of Story Genius, trying to figure what the mess of my story is about, convinced I am an idiot because I am simply not getting it. And then I read the latter part of your statement: “Fiction also helps readers experience this truth: all humans are far more alike than different.”
I think I found the golden nugget of what my story is about. In spite of all the name-calling and the labels, we all fear, love, become disappointed, we hurt, we feel alone. It’s all in there, but I was too focused on the plot points.
Sarah, thank you for this essay. It’s a must read for everyone not just writers. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Rebecca. Thank you for sharing what so many (or perhaps all of us) feel as we are writing … this question: What the heck is this story even ABOUT???
I have been there. I am there. I will be there again.
I loved your words. Thank you right back! Happy writing on this fine Wednesday. I’m so glad to have met you. :)
Sarah, I can’t imagine a more kind-hearted advocate for mental illness AND words. Your posts always make me smile. Thank you.
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT (Gift of Travel)
Thank YOU, Denise. And your book is on my nightstand … it will be my treat for finishing a freelance project with a hairy, scary deadline. I can’t wait.
And I love that I got to meet you!
Happy writing to you. I’m so glad you are here at WU.
Dear Sarah, Thank you for your gift this morning. You hugged my heart with your words. Author of nothing, Patty Matteson
Dear Patty,
Thank you for these words. And for the record, I don’t believe for one second that you are the author of nothing. That said, I always find it’s the writers who don’t feel like writers (as in, there’s a sense of the impostor syndrome) who are the actual writers.
Let’s both be authors. Do we have a deal? :)
Great post, Sarah. I always feel up after I read your stuff. I’ll share this little gem that my high school drama teacher trotted out with some regularity:
“Normality is merely a statistical mean of which none of us is wholly a part.”–Tom Smith (Seriously, he had the most common, “normal” name in America.)
Ha! Yes, how could a Tom Smith be anything other than normal? Does he have a wife named Mary? And two kids named Jane and Billy? And their dog, Rover!
I love this quotation. Thank you so much for sharing … I will pass it along to my kids. They are both in middle school, i.e. the place where no one feels normal yet everyone is!
I am grateful that you weighed in this morning.
What a light-filled thing you have written, Sarah. It’s hard to pick one work of fiction from the many that have made me feel hopeful for our species. The Kite Runner jumped into my head first so I’ll go with that for now. It connected me to a place I’d never been and to people living a very different life. But it showed me that we are all the same in our need to be loved and connected and seen. So here are some words for you; Sarah is gifted. Sarah is compassionate. Sarah is funny and sad, oftentimes in one sentence, which is amazing. There is no one in this universe wired the way Sarah is and I’m grateful that I get to know her. Because one-of-a-kind Sarah has reminded me today that we are all unique even as we are profoundly the same. Thank you!!
Oh Susan. I had to reach for a tissue just now. What a gift you and your words are to me! Really, I cannot thank you enough.
I, too, thought of the Kite Runner as I was writing this post. I think that was the first novel I had ever read about Afghan culture, and wonder of wonders, it could have taken place in the states! Fiction really does change our perspective and really, our whole life.
And your words have changed my morning. What a gift.
This is a beautiful and true and generous comment. Thank you, Susan.
Thank you, too, Sarah, for reminding us how important it is to pull away from self, to expand the narrative, and to question what we think we know. A book that did that for me this year was Bryn Greenwood’s All the Ugly and Wonderful Things.
I wish I could’ve been there to lend a hand when you fell. I hope you’re healing well post-surgery.
Sarah – Thank you for this reminder not only to us as writers but in general, on how careless we sometimes are with our words. I’m reminded of the passage in the Bible which speaks of the enormous power of our words to hurt. I am also reminded of the term “forgotten people” used as a catch-phrase during the election. It seems there are more “forgotten” members of society than we realize. Forgotten in the sense that we too easily lump them into a stereotype or a derogatory word we believe is harmless. Which though well-worn, is never harmless.
I think it’s safe, and even ironic, to say most of us for one reason or another can be considered “forgotten” when it comes to the way others may see or describe us.
I believe most writers weigh their words carefully, at least in their writing. Would it be useful to give that same careful consideration to the words we use in our everyday lives, when we’re “off-duty?” I, for one, would admit the need for more care in that regard.
I loved these words, Vincent. Thank you.
Yes, the forgotten people. I know there’s a lot of fear in our country right now–I am experiencing it too. But I also think this is an opportunity to do a better job of seeing and paying attention to the marginalized and forgotten. I do tend to be a little Pollyanna, but for me, the idea that we are in a time of opportunity (rather than a time of uncertainty, bigotry and discrimination) reduces my anxiety tremendously. And that’s good for my brain. It’s good for everyone’s brain!
For the record, I have also used words that discriminate and felt feelings of fear about others with a mental health condition. And those are my people!
It is hard to change our language, even harder to alter our perceptions and prejudice. We are all works in progress, no?
Thank you for your presence here today, Vincent.
So powerful, Sarah. Your essay is the proof of itself — your words here can and will change any who read them. Thank you.
And thank YOU, Ann. I am so happy we got to meet and have that teeny conversation. I think of it often … the power of words, right?
Have a great day, sweet Ann.
Sarah,
You asked for an example of words, I’m choosing your words. They are beautiful, they tug at my heart strings, and they make me want to understand how it feels to live inside your brain, and see through your eyes.
I don’t believe in the words “mental illness”. Your brain is not ill. The way you process information inside your brain is just a different way than someone else’s process. But we all process that information the way our brains our wired, and science is proving that wiring is not exactly the same. David Eagleman the neuroscientist (did I spell that correctly? My brain has trouble processing the process of letters sometimes…) talks a lot about the exciting stuff science is finding out about brains. The thing science concurs on and Lisa Cron writes about so eloquently is that we are all wired for story.
Your words make me see through your eyes. And it is beautiful.
Blessed be your journey, Sara.
I just proof read, after I hit “send”. There I go again with letters. I left out the h at the end of your name. But the blessing sent is for you, including your h.
Blessed be, Sarah.
Sweet Bernadette. Thank you! Yes, we in the world of mental health adventures tend to have varied opinions about the words “mental illness.” I don’t mind it, but others do, and your point is excellent.
The word, “depression” is also a tough one. A while back, when I was in a deep pit, I called a friend to ask if she and I could reschedule a lunch date. I explained that I was in such bad shape that I could hardly string sentences together. She was hurt. She felt rejected. She said, “Well, when *I* am depressed, it helps to be around other people.”
That told me that she doesn’t have my kind of depression. But because we use that word so freely, and because it means so many different things to different people, it’s easy to see why the suggestion to “change your attitude” or “just buck up!’ is so common. And so unhelpful.
Thank you for these words of comfort, Bernadette. You can spell my name any old way you want. :)
Sarah, you are beautiful and a beautiful writer. We are far more the same than we are different, all on the same continuum at various tick marks in different seasons. I would even venture to say that every single person has whackjob to extraordinary built into their wiring. One moment we can be running the Boston Marathon and the next in a wheelchair and one moment we can lead the perfect life and the next, things fall apart. It’s called being human and it’s extraordinary — all of it.
Thank you for the gift of your thoughts on this journey of life. <3
Janna. Thank you. I am sending warm hugs from just a few miles north.
I was thinking about you when I wrote this post because memoir–the beautiful things you are writing and sharing–matter just as much as fiction. Anything with people (real or fictional) and a story arc is a story that matters. YOU are going to change the world with your book. I’m so excited for you and happy to know you.
Stay warm!
Sarah, we all fall, indeed. That gravity stuff—it’s everywhere. Thank you for the wholehearted sense of inclusion in your post, and for its grace. I’ve had mild to moderate depression since I was a tangled teenager, and when it’s in gear, I’m in a tent, with thin air—it’s always hard to find a way to breathe. I’m grateful I don’t have the harsher version.
I may have told you this before, but a while back I edited a memoir written by a person with Bipolar 2 who had become a stand-up comedian. She had had some severe challenges, and was continuing to work though them, but she was so skilled at explaining the circumstances of her condition and her rich place in the world. And so dang funny too. Artistic and boundary-pushing and brave, as you say.
Thanks for your words today. They are chewy, they taste of maple and peppermint, they are warm.
Thank you, Tom. Yes gravity. So many pros and cons to gravity. Highs and lows too. Sigh.
You did tell me about that book, and because my brain is filled with helium, your words likely floated right up to the sky. Thank you for the memory jog. It doesn’t surprise me that this woman is a funny one … I was recently at a conference where all the attendees have a mental health condition AND they are high functioning, lovely members of society, ass kickers and so smart and compassionate. I think it was the funniest group of people ever congregated. https://www.thestabilitynetwork.org/
Is there a way i can get my hands on her book? You probably told me how before (I blame the helium).
I hate that you know what depression feels like. Your analogy is perfect though, and you are funny, and I tend to gravitate toward the melancholic types so that’s cool.
Have a great day, friend. Thank you for being here!
Sarahhhhhhhh (see, you have “ahhh” in your name, which indicates deep relaxation and guru potential. Please exploit this as soon as possible):
The book is Chocolate Pudding in Heaven, by Maggie Newcomb (who also has the distinction of being six feet tall):
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0181K0B4K/
Thank you for writing this glorious post, Sarah!
I so appreciated you hanging back with me at WU Uncon when I hobbled to lunch on my broken foot. The injury is humbling. No one likes to think of themselves as damaged or vulnerable. Segue. My oldest son has schizophrenia, and I’ve noticed over the years that he’s suffered from the way he believes others perceive mental illness. His worry that others will think he’s “crazy” sometimes feeds into the incorrect belief that he doesn’t need to take the medicine that keeps him well. Ironic, I know. We are all sensitive beings.
I’ve been thinking of you and your foot. Hoping you are healing well!
Oh, Lorrie. Thank you so much for sharing about your son. There are few things more painful than having a child with a mental health condition. I know this 100%. He is lucky to have you. Very lucky. :)
I think about you EVERY TIME I go down the stairs on my bum. It makes me feel better to know you are no stranger to bum-stairing. I have weeks and weeks left of cast and walking boot, and months before I am fully healed, but I am doing better.
And you? Are you back to mega marathons? I hope so … or at least I hope you are back to wearing two normal shoes.
Thank you, Lorrie!
Thank you for your wise words, Sarah.
A friend gave me My Dyslexia by (Pulitzer Prize winner) Philip Schultz. In the pages of this book, I felt not only heard but also found validation for my dream–building an author career.
Fiction is powerful.
Wishing you continued success
Thank you, Leanne, for taking the time to write.
Yes, I love that you mentioned validation. That is even more essential than “just” being seen and heard. Thank you for adding that detail … it’s such an important one.
And I love that My Dyslexia was so powerful. I sometimes refer to my brain-stuff as “my depression” (as in “my depression has come back”). Years ago, I had someone tell me that I shouldn’t refer to it as “my” depression because that word, “my,” gave it too much power. My first thought: Don’t tell me what to do. My second thought: But it IS my depression. It makes me, ME, good and not-so-good. I wonder if Philip Schultz would say the same.
I am glad you are here, Leanne.
Sarah, poignant and true words. Each one of us is so unique in how we see the world and with the power of words can help or hurt our brothers and sisters. Wish I had been in the park when you fell. Reaching out in word and deed, though it sounds trite, really helps the person reaching out as much the one who is helped. When I was going through a dark time in my life, it was a woman who helped me clean my house we said boldly and rightly: “Feeling down. Go out and help someone else.” She was right.
Yes! This is so true … I love it. And I think the truth of that–when we are feeling down we should help others–suggests that perhaps we are wired to be kind and do good in the world. I like to believe that anyway.
Thank you, sweet Beth. The woman who helped you clean your home … she sounds like an angel! I’m so glad there’s more light in your life these days.
Happy writing to you!
Wonderful post, Sarah!
I’ve always been a believer in the power of words. Funny. They’re only a group of letters strung together to describe something, but oh, how much harm (or good) they can do. I even made a meme about it many moons ago:
Thanks for your wise WORDS and for drawing attention to how we “classify” people. We’re all perfectly imperfect.
I love this, Mike. And while I still can’t figure out exactly what a meme is (or does?) I love that you made one. Seriously, I cannot tell you how many times I have tried to get someone to explain “meme” to me. I don’t know what my issues is. Usually I am not such a bonehead.
We really are all perfectly imperfect. I am so glad to know, you, Mike.
Hey Sarah-
I’m so glad to know you in real life – to have experienced your quick smile, bright eyes, and wit which always makes me laugh. And, you are a snappy dresser! I thought of: Sarah is patient, she is kind, she does not envy, boast, is not proud….you know that list. It’s what popped into my mind as I read your piece.
For our family, complete with a child on the autism spectrum, there is one loaded word we hate to hear. Our son bristles at it when it’s applied to him. It’s a boring word and so bland, that most people don’t think of the damage it can cause. It is: “normal”. Before learning of his diagnosis, we often asked or thought this, “Why can’t you be normal in this situation?” We had a bumpy couple of years as we wrestled with ‘being normal’. He is not. We are not. And I’m convinced, there is no normal!
The book that he read repeatedly during those bumpy times was, Wonder by R.J. Palacio. I’m convinced that the characters and story became his friends when he needed them most. You are absolutely correct that fiction shapes us, finds us, and speaks to us in very personal ways. Thank you for being you. Thank you for writing!
See you around!
Oh, JK. Thank you for appearing here! After all, you are a brain-blogger.
I loved wonder SO much. Did you know that the boy on whom Auggie was based came to talk to the older kids at Anna’s school? I think he was having surgery # 47 (or some horribly huge number) at Children’s. Anna loved him.
Do you find that having a kid with a cool brain makes you a braver person? I do. It’s such a gift. Your cuties are so lucky to have you as their mama.
Thank you for your beautiful and encouraging words. xoxoxo!
Beautifully expressed.
Stories are more important than ever in light of the dark days that I worry are descending upon us … stories can be used to sway emotion and create anger and fear and hatred … but at their best, at their most powerful, stories can be a light in the darkness and teach us to be brave, to be courageous and to care about others.
It is hard to hate someone when you have imagined yourself in their shoes and imagined what it is like to be them, to experience the world they experience. Stories create empathy in an immersive world and prose is perhaps better at it than any other medium because rather than film or audio or games where we are *shown* someone else’s perspective, where we are always outside that person no matter the tricks that are used to get us into a character’s mind-space, prose/fiction dares us, challenges us to imagine what it is like to be that person and experience their world from their perspective, on their terms.
Empathy is the key to (to be melodramatic) heal the world and give us peace.
Well said.
Sarah,
Thank you for this lovely and honest post.
The book that helped me the most the last year was re-reading Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone. I had read it as a teen, but when I read it again I was just beginning to get through a terrifying bout of depression. There’s this scene when the main character, Dolores, finds a beached whale and she makes the decision to try to take her life. She finds grace in the eyes of the whale and rises up through the water, still afraid but she knows she has to find a way to keep on living. Even writing about it now brings tears to my eyes.
Reading that broke me down and made me realize how close I had come to taking my own life. To read about someone who walked so close to death and knew she simply had to find a way to keep on living- it gave me another dot to connect so I could make the choice to keep going as well. That scene was written with such compassion.
It was shortly after that I scrapped the book I was working on and began a new work about someone like me who had overcome addiction and abuse and has to find a way to keep going, keep giving hope a chance to kindle.
Your post is a reminder of why writing this book is so important. To provide that connection and compassion for someone else out there.
I wish I had been there to help you when you took a spill. And I wish you love and light through each turn of depression. May you always find it.
Thank you for being a light. xo
Dear Tonia.
Thank you, thank you. I remember that book too … beautiful and heartbreaking.
I know that deep, dark pit you are talking about. It’s horrible. AND knowing that you know the pit too gives me comfort … not that I’d wish it upon ANYONE, but I think you know what I mean.
You are the perfect example of brave and strong and grace-filled. Someone once told me that some days, just the simple act of getting out of bed takes great courage. YOU are walking courage. Courage, beauty and light.
Thank you, sweet T.
First, I want to yell at all those people who didn’t help you up!
As a well-educated white woman of Anglo-Saxon heritage, I live a privileged life. People usually see me (and if they don’t they’ll hear about it. Politely, but …)
The books that make my heart sing are the ones that give voice to people who aren’t usually heard. Like: The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie, Up Ghost River by Edmund Metatawabin, Three Day Road by Joseph Boyden.
I’ve also been following the blog Reading While White. It’s been a real eye-opener about stereotyping and how to avoid it. Highly recommended for all us privileged folks who may want to write about people who are not seen and heard.
Lovely Rita!
I too loved Part-time Indian. Sherman Alexie’s kids went to my kids’ school, and when I’d see him in the parking lot, I’d turn into a nervous nelly. I couldn’t even tell him how much I had love his books. So silly of me.
Thank you for those book ideas, too! I am in your same camp … Camp Privilege, all by luck of the draw. There is so much I take for granted. Thank you for sharing words that a lot of people don’t feel comfy sharing. And I passed along that blog title to one of my writing partners too. She will be grateful for the insights.
You are a wealth of info and empathy. You are a peach!
Thank you, Sarah, for this post and this reminder that words do matter. How we use them matters.
And, by the way, I’m living proof that the distance between South Carolina and California isn’t as far as some think when they first look at a map. I was born and raised in SC, was in graduate school in Chicago when I got engaged, moved to Portland, OR, after getting married (not quite California but close,) and have lived in Houston, Salt Lake City, and now Central Illinois. All this because of my husband’s job.
Words have gone with me to all these places. Their solidity, their potential, and their power haven’t changed. And they still amaze me.
If we’re willing to share compassion, as you so astutely pointed out, words have the leverage to go with us anywhere. Thank you!
Thank YOU, Ekta. I love your words. Are you by chance living near the U of I campus? Your husband’s job sounds like one of academia or medicine. :)
I can only imagine an accent that is southern, Chicaaagoan, and Texan. Do you have a favorite place? Did you embrace your inner hipster in Portland? So many beards and thick-rimmed glasses there! I love it.
I am so glad you, too, know the solace and power of words. I’m so glad to meet you. I love your name.
Have a happy weekend, Ekta.
Dearest Sarah,
I would have helped you up from that puddle!
Thank you for your transparency, honesty and courage. You are acting as the change you want to see in the world by speaking up and out, and I so admire that.
Every day is an opportunity to learn how to listen. When I listen, I can practice compassion and caring, the ultimate acts of love.
Words can hurt deeply. The painful ones become part of our biology. I’ve lately had a chance to take out the stories of my childhood and decide if they own me or if I own them. Or if I want to rewrite them in a new way. They don’t fit anymore, I’ve outgrown their use. But can’t words can also heal? When we name things or tell the story or the truth, they somehow don’t hold the same power over us. I love this saying, “we are only as sick as our secrets”. Or, what we feel that we need to keep inside to protect ourselves from others judgements.
Grateful to read your post today, Sarah. Happy Holidays.
“The caustic, hostile, unproductive language used by both sides upset me tremendously.
Oh, the power of words.”
You are so right, and thank you for speaking out. I have long advocated for people to stop with the angry reactions and horrible words just because they don’t agree. Civility seems to be a lost art.
Thanks for sharing, Sarah. These words of yours encouraged me on multiple levels this week. I am grateful.
I clicked on the tinyCoffee/PayPal link, but it brought me to a dead end. Maybe the next time I’m in Seattle, I could buy you a coffee or lunch in person?
Sandra (author of Passionate Embrace: Faith, Flesh, Tango)