Little geography lesson for you. Fly into St. Louis. Sail up the river for about 8 hours. Start to panic because you haven't seen any sign of life for tens of miles. Then turn the corner and hop off; you've made it to Nauvoo, IL! But seriously, with a population of 1,200, if you're not Mormon, you've almost certainly never heard of little ol' Nauvoo.
And yet, the BYU ballroom team still decided to pin Nauvoo as the hub of their two week tour in 2015.
I mean, the tour was fine. The people were kind. The members of the company were (mostly) cordial. The sites were inspiring, and the food was survivable. Nothing in this tour was astronomically terrible. Except, my anxiety. Thankfully, it was mild. I'd like to consider myself a high functioning crazy person, but every time I think that, my anxiety kindly reminds me that high functioning is grossly exaggerated.
This lap of anxiety focused around, you guessed it, being accepted by my teammates. Six chapters in and I feel like I'm repeating myself over and over, just change the name and the location and the chapter basically writes itself. Why won't people invite me to play games with them? Why does no one sit next to me on the bus? Why, when I'm feeling sad or alone or scared or anxious, does no one come to be with me? Am I meant to face these challenges alone, when all round me are people who are capable of helping?
One particular teammate, Brady, affected me more than the others. Before leaving on tour, we'd sit and talk about girls, and music, and family. Ice cream trips and late nights of video games and thousands of picture chats and internet memes. I was happy. For once I had a friend who I could be comfortable around, one who encouraged me to be better than I allowed myself to be. For some reason, the anxiety which so sorely plagued my other friendships wasn't there. Was I finally free from the vice that restricted my ability to be at peace?
Oh, absolutely not!
Time caught up to me, and time ran out as I boarded that plane from Utah to Illinois. Because the Brady I knew, the man who so defended me, disappeared under the barrage of demands from the people around us. And why wouldn't he? He was witty, and vivacious, and people loved to be in his company. And what was I? I was quiet, and introspective, and many times removed from the general populous because I couldn't emotionally remain under the scrutiny of others. So he would congregate with those under the "popular" label and I would sit and watch. Alone.
Until something changed. Times were still hard and people were particularly berating and my anxiety level was beyond the stars and I just couldn't do it anymore. I hid in my shell and I closed the lid and wished the tour would be over so I could finally move on and start over again. But, as our show concluded and we were all packed up and finally traveling home, Will, a fellow teammate of mine, asked if I wanted to take a walk and chat a little. Obviously he could see the bellows of emotion that spewed out from the continual batterings I had undergone, and probably thought a little chat would level me out. Of course, thanks for the gesture, but a simple conversation isn't going to fix the problem, nor will I ever divulge my tangled web of emotions to someone else.
And yet, I accepted his offer.
What?! After years of conveying my emotions and watching them get shattered on the ground, I was willing to put my trust in someone with whom I had mildly worked, but never really interacted with on a frequent basis?! Was I that desperate for someone to be concerned over my well being that I would expose myself to the first person who was worried about me?
Well, no. It wasn't that at all. I was tired of hiding. All the times I hid from the world buried my soul deeper and deeper into the carcass that carried it. For almost my entire life, I displaced who I was and masked myself as someone others would like, and in doing so, gained neither respect from others nor a sense of identity about myself. Oh sure, there were times I'd allow myself to showcase who I really was, in small social circles and in small amounts. But after years of masquerading I was tired of continually feeling empty. I was tired of being void of emotion as to not appear weak or desperate. I wanted to, for the first time, showcase myself proudly and boldly, my strengths and my flaws, to someone who cared to listen.
Will cared to listen. Conversation started light, discussing the aspects of tour and performances and what have you. But as time went on, we started talking about themes of trust and understanding and individuality. I remember talking about the social travesties I faced, and how I had to face them alone. "Why do you have to go it alone?" Will remark. And it was a question I had thought about from time to time, but heaven forbid I express my flawed thoughts aloud. "It's because no one cares. People want to be entertained; they don't want to sojourn through someone else's travesties. When times get rough, people disappear and I'm left alone." "Do you believe that?" ". . . no. But I when I'm at my worst, I sit and I wait and I pray and no one comes. I've learned it's just easier to face the world on my own." "Are you alone because no one comes, or because you don't let anyone in?"
I . . . I for the longest time thought letting people in made me vulnerable. Was I wrong? Was I relying on the imperfections of my childhood to govern my emotional state as a "more experienced" adult? Did I miss something all those years ago that could have changed the way I see the world? Yet, here I was putting my trust in someone, and I was happy. Ecstatic, actually, because the burden of the years of baggage began melting off my shoulders and drifting off into the night. There were no judgments; there was no animosity. Just understanding.
Though the conversation with Will was delightfully invigorating, the war was far from over. Though my eyes were opening to the possibility that people actually cared for a change, my heart was still closed, because Brady, the friend I "needed" so badly, was still socially absent from me.
It was the last full day in Nauvoo. Mounds of emotion heaped on me as anxiety incapacitated me. I was leaving, and at the same time losing yet another friend. Those hours of games and movies and jokes seemed insignificant when stacked against the last few weeks of isolation. Was this how such an incredible friendship was going to end?
No. I wouldn't let it. Something inside me decided to fight back. If talking to Will, if expressing my fears in an attempt to find inner peace took me to an elevated level of happiness, then I might as well try it again. So, back to the dirt road I went, but this time, with Brady and an unyielding resolve to mend whatever was broken. And maybe that's why I was scared to say anything in the first place. What really was broken? Did anything need fixing? Did I fabricate a reality where I was unhappy with my circumstances despite the alarmingly positive events around me?
It was too late for introspection. It was too late for masks and false identities and filters. Words spewed out of my mouth as if a fire hose was putting out a 26 year old fire. Fingers were pointed, feelings were hurt, voices were raised much louder than they should have been at 1 in the morning. But something interesting happened. I screamed at him that I was a horrible friend and way too mentally unstable to ever maintain a friendship. He screamed back the same thing. I told him how much I felt alone while in Nauvoo. He told me how much he appreciated me supporting him while at Nauvoo. I said I felt like our friendship was one sided. He said he had done everything he could have to be the kind of friend I was to him.
I didn't know what to say. "Look" he told me, "those times you needed me, I gave up everything to be there for you. When you called saying you needed to talk, I thought of you and what you've done for me and tried to give that back to you. I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend. You're not the only one who has trouble keeping friends, you know." I didn't know. I didn't see the pain this man was going through because I only saw the pain I was going through. My heart was finally open. I began to see clearly what I had missed for so many years; the key to resolving every single failed friendship I had ever had.
Perspective.
Because that entire trip revolved around how I was being treated; my entire friendship was governed by my happiness. I missed the times he went off alone because of his natural affinity towards being an introvert. I overlooked all the times he was patient, and generous, and understanding of my weaknesses and insecurities and how he still accepted me knowing all that. I mean, for crying out loud, he would sit next to me on the bus every dance trip we took! Months earlier, he let me sleep on his shoulder while I atrophied under one of my heaviest bouts of Crohn's Disease. Of all the people he had invited to his new home, which was few to begin with, I was the one person he invited over the most.
"I need you to forgive me when I mess up. I need you to be patient with me because I am just trying to be a good friend and I don't know how." I don't know how either, Brady. And that's the point. That's the point of this entire story. No one knows how to be a good friend. We all suck at it because of our imperfections, and the lies we've been fed by society. But that's OK. We don't have to be perfect to be a good friend. Patient, maybe. A little faith in others definitely goes a long way. But perfection isn't a prerequisite.
Perspective is. If we lose sight of others, if we miss the qualities and experiences that define them, how can we ever love them? And if we lose perspective of ourselves, and our mistakes, and our beauties, how can we ever love ourselves? It goes both ways, but it must go both ways. Brady is my friend, and while he may suck at it, he's MY FRIEND. Those others I've mentioned along the way? Yeah, they're my friends too, suckiness and all. And honestly, I've never been alone. Opening my eyes showed me the waves of people who have always defended me, and supported me, and elevated me above and beyond my sunken situation. The loneliness and the isolation derived from the blinders I put on myself to protect me from harm; ironically, the blinders kept me walled off from the acceptance of others so much so that I walked straight into harm. And once I finally removed those blinders, the brilliance I beheld was unfathomable. I was no longer alone.
It was close to 3 am when we finished talking. Though emotionally battered, I felt at peace. I conquered the anxiety, and with it, the baggage that accompanied me for so long. I decided that night to take a different path: one of faith, of patience, of forgiveness.
And most importantly, one of perspective.
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