BY LAURA ZERA
If humans were simple, relationships would be easy. I’m pretty sure any fungi you asked would tell you that they’d never met another fungi they didn’t like.
It may seem obvious, but we are not fungi. Understanding our own feelings and actions (let alone someone else’s) invariably involves peeling onion layers, navel gazing, deconstructing, or unpacking. And once we figure out who we are as individuals, next we’re navigating how to share our non-fungi selves in relationships of all sorts, hoping the other person can appreciate us for who we are. In the words of the wise prophet Cookie Monster, “Who care if me eat carrot or collard greens? Me also like broccoli and lettuce and lima beans. Me still Cookie Monster. That not a sham.”
As someone who lives with a mental health condition or three, part of what I do as an advocate is around reducing stigma, growing the spaces where we can show up as our full selves. But I’ve learned feeling safe about someone’s response when I disclose my mental health condition is far different than trusting I’ll receive empathy from them when I need it. Like in the middle of a mental health episode, for example, when I can’t show up for work, or to the birthday celebration, or at the kitchen table (literally and metaphorically).
Further along that continuum, I plot a point where empathy becomes deep knowing. This is the place where my “relationship people” develop a sense of what it’s like to walk in my shoes, not because they live with their own mental health condition, but because they’ve seen me catatonic in fetal position or triggered into hyperventilation. Admittedly, it’s a small group, and thankfully, those kind of play dates have been few. Small can be mighty, though. Small can be enduring.
Another point which may seem obvious, but that can become a slippery ideal when in the company of someone who matters to you: all of us with mental health conditions deserve acceptance and compassion in our relationships. If that isn’t forthcoming, then it’s time to look at the other person’s complicated, non-fungi self and how they show up in the relationship. Observe and evaluate. Of course, this is difficult in its own right; I’ve always turned to other supportive relationships to help me through acknowledging and ending a non-supportive one. And in saying “supportive,” I’m including the paid relationships. Wait, that sounds wrong. I mean therapists.
There have been times when I’ve realized I needed to adjust my own expectations, especially when I’m feeling “unseen.” The reality is that people don’t know until they know. I didn’t understand how hard divorce was until I went through my own. And hence, I don’t expect all my relationship people to get what it’s like to live with Complex PTSD, depression and anxiety, or know my daily struggles and the inner workings of my mind. How could they? Not to mention that it’s freaking hard to put it into words. Hence the origin of emojis.
I’m in the second half-century of my life, so I’ve had a lot of relationships (that also sounds a bit wrong, but we’ll let it go) and I still have to actively manage my mental health conditions every single day, so nope, no silver bullet there. At least my operational plan has crystallized, and it goes something like this: not fungi; a lot of unpacking; empathy in relationships as a baseline, not a bonus; me still me, that not a sham.
Laura Zera is a writer, IT consultant and mental health advocate. She is committed to sharing stories and information about Complex PTSD so it becomes more widely understood in every arena. Her work has been featured in the New York Times, the Washington Post, DAME Magazine, Catapult, the Seattle Times and other places, and she is working on two books. After 17 years in Seattle, Laura recently moved home to British Columbia. Connect with her at laurazera.com or on Twitter and Instagram @laurazera.