Hey, can we talk?

On the importance of tough conversations

Photo courtesy of Justin Varholick via Dupe Photos.

I have this memory of myself as a teenager in the rec room of my parents’ house with two of my best friends. One friend and I were sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of our other friend who had her knees up to her chest and her arms around her legs in a sort of upright fetal position. We were talking about her feelings of wanting to break up with her boyfriend, how she didn’t know how she would do it, how he would take it, or if it was the right decision. As we talked, she pointed out how her body was trembling. I had noticed it too, this constant contracting and releasing, contracting and releasing of her body, almost as if she were sitting out in the cold. I offered her a blanket and she shook her head.

“This happens whenever I think about it,” she said.

A couple years after that, I had the same sensation when I too was thinking about breaking up with my boyfriend. It was the same sort of involuntary, full body spasms. They would start in my legs and work their way up until my entire core was involved, like I was sitting in an igloo and not in my bedroom. However, it was more than just nerves or sub-degree temperatures. Like my friend had noted about herself, it happened whenever I thought about it – about this big, difficult conversation I was about to have, this intimidating precipice I was standing on the edge of. It would be life-altering, nothing would be the same after, and my body knew it. It seemed to be preparing for it.

Recently, I had this reaction again, though the situation was much different than it was back in high school. I wasn’t breaking up with a boyfriend, instead, I was having a conversation with a friend. The stakes, however, felt oddly high, just like they had when I was younger. I was talking to her about something that had been received poorly when I’d tried discussing it with others. My body, it seems, had stored that information in my cells, creating a sort of muscle memory. Even though she was a different person than the others, even though I logically knew she would likely respond well, my body braced for impact, for the inevitable lashing out.

Given how the previous conversations had gone, I was hyper aware of how I was coming across. I feared my spontaneous spasms would be perceived as dramatic, manipulative. I vocalized this, wanting to make it clear that this was an odd, automatic reflex and not some sinister tactic. My friend, different as she is from the others, was confused that I would suggest such a thing and reassured me that she didn’t think that was my intention. My fears were calmed but my body continued to tremble.

In talking with my therapist, my suspicions that this reaction was a stress response, likely even a PTSD response, were confirmed. Again, I feared I sounded dramatic. After all, PTSD feels like a term reserved for someone who has been attacked or been to war, not someone just having a conversation with a friend. But that is the crux of it: This felt as big to me as those moments do for others. I had had a similar conversation with other friends and it had gone much differently. It even mirrored how many interactions with my mom went when I was a child. As a result, my body learned it wasn’t safe to talk about this, i.e. my feelings. It took note and stored it, keeping it for later in order to keep me safe when it needed to. In this way, it wasn’t just a PTSD response but a Complex PTSD (CPTSD) response. I had been here before, so my body, conditioned to the familiar threat, responded accordingly.

The fact that my reaction was so potent shows how important the conversation – the friendship – is to me. Like the impending break up with a boyfriend, I knew this conversation had the potential to shift our relationship, for better or worse, indefinitely. Additionally, because I had kept my feelings inside all this time for fear I’d experience the same backlash as I had from the others, they’d only compounded themselves. Feeling them was risky. Sharing them, I’d learned, was dangerous. I wasn’t just on a precipice, I was on the edge of a growing chasm caused by the lack of transparency, an inability to be honest.

That’s what a lack of communication does, doesn’t it? It creates negative space, it turns people into magnets, repelling their poles apart. Ask any therapist or old married couple and they’ll tell you the key to a successful relationship is communication. But communication – in any form, really – can’t happen without trust.

“We should be able to have these conversations,” my friend said as we were finishing our talk.

“Yes, we should,” I agreed.

She was right. Because we are friends (and adults, for that matter), we should be able to come to each other and talk about how we’re feeling without it turning into a traumatic or triggering event. We should be able to listen to each other with respect and receptiveness. If we want to close the distance – hell, if we want to go the distance – we have to be able to hold the space. It wasn’t an easy or initially comfortable conversation, but because we were both present and open, it only brought us closer. It reminded me that I can trust her, and she can trust me.

These are the conversations that remind us who our people are, where our energy is worth flowing. As we age, our energy – our time – is limited. The hardest part of my thirties has been the realization that not everyone can meet you where and when you need them. However, capacity is one thing and willingness is another. In having these conversations, I’ve learned who is willing to be vulnerable with me and who will take advantage of my vulnerability. It’s why I not only have a CPTSD response, but a hardened boundary from their breach of trust. I’m unwilling to go there again. These conversations, though difficult, have been the clarifying moments I’ve needed to finally cut ties with toxicity.

Other conversations, on the other hand, have gone badly yet my willingness remains. This tells me there’s still something worth saving. My expectations may be lower and my trust may be dampened, but the relationship still means something to me. There may be distance now, but I have hope that we can someday come together the way my friend and I just did. I have hope that when we do, I won’t be shaking out of stress response, but from laughter – from the shared relief of clearing the chasm and making it to the other side together.