“Jackie wants a black eye, some proof that she’s been hit” – Dr. Dog.

Last night I had a dream that I came upon a gas station where he was involved in a confrontation with a group of men. He swung first, but they were swinging back and he was in danger. I remember looking at the welt forming on his forehead and having a sense of relief come over me… now people would see him hurting… Know he was in pain. Maybe they would help them. Maybe they could help him. He’d never let me…

I read a book my mom (bless my mom) bought the boys about worries following the divorce. In the book a little girl has been shoving all of her worries into one big Santa Claus size bag. Of course the bag gets heavier and heavier to lug around and the bag is invisible so no one even knows to ask her if she needs help carrying it. Through a chance meeting with a wise older woman she discovers that if she takes the worries out of the bag and acknowledges their presence that they’re not all that daunting. By discussing them, she’s able to let them go, to empty her bag.

It’s a simple book with a simple message but it reminded me of those lyrics by Dr. Dog and how we all – to varying extents anyway – carry invisible weights that would never show outwardly if we didn’t openly discuss them. The lyrics take it a step further, calling us to question how life would change if that bag of worries were all the sudden visible; if internal pain showed up on our bodies in the form of bumps, bruises, visible ailments. I question what I would look like, what the people I love would look like, what the people I’ve lost respect for would look like.

What if those who suffer internally were forced into wheelchairs, unable to walk. Or maybe their ailment only required them to need crutches. Whatever the degree, how different would life be if we all knew and could see their handicaps? Surely people see someone in a wheelchair and know they may need to hold the door, offer a push up a hill, and so on and so forth. No one disagrees on what the needs are and the magnitude of the problem because the handicap is there for us to see and the resulting limitations are perceived relatively the same amongst most.

If we were forced to see, we’d be forced to confront. And if we’re forced to confront, we’re suddenly accountable. With nothing hidden, perhaps we would see that we’re all suffering something. Maybe the healing comes in communal suffering… “we’re all in it together now, as we all fall apart”…

If only we could see what’s on the inside. If only the person in desperate need of a life saver was visibly drowning. It’s a rabbit hole, filled to the brim with an abundance of “if only”…

And so, here we are, handicapped by things only we can acknowledge, things only we can chose to discuss, or not; cans of worms we can keep the lid on, or open. Our health relying on our own self-awareness, on our willingness to embrace vulnerability, on our own inner strength.

Ain’t that a dangerous thing?

As for me? The more I talk, the better I feel. My worries are still heavy and I carry them with me but I’m not carrying them alone. And the more I share, the more I’m able to release. And that is everything.