One Undeniable Truth

There is one undeniable truth.

To truly understand where one becomes remarkably real is to understand the scope and depth of what one was before.

Growing up I vividly remember making a choice to never hurt another. I’d been the one hurt, the one taunted and bullied, and I didn’t want anyone else to feel that. So I smiled, I joked, I shrugged off the piercings of venomous arrows and hid their ill effects to the world. I became the gentle giant, the quick wit that brought levity to all situations.

I made people happy, and I would be damned to show that I was anything but.

Bringing joy was addictive, and the more opportunities I had to do so meant that any other emotion I felt had to be suppressed. There could be no cracks in my façade, so for years there was a constant imbalance between the placid public persona and the mental maelstrom raging inside. Confidence versus low self-worth. Abundant joy versus crippling depression. Calm demeanor versus sparks of violent outbursts in the dark. The obsessive compulsion to control whatever I could to combat the overwhelming loss of control within.

Then, it fell apart.

Not one specific moment would tear down the house, but rather three. Three events that the calendar would say were nowhere near each other yet live in my recollection as occurring within days.

The first would be the tragic events that happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School. I have a deep passion for children and have always tried my best to listen to them, to make them feel accepted, to celebrate when they can be allowed to simply be child-like. When the news broke about the shootings I was completely shattered. I didn’t even know these children, yet to know that their joy and innocence had been taken from them rattled me like nothing before. There was no making light, only a sadness that took days to come to terms with.

The second event was the loss of Robin Williams. Again, didn’t know him apart from his movie and television appearances. He wasn’t even my favorite comedian. What he was, though, was a relatable figure. A comic genius with perfect timing whose madcap exterior hid a deeply wounded soul that would ultimately become too much to bear. He was me, and if the fame and fortune of the celebrity life wasn’t enough to save him, what chance did I have? And as I would learn, Robin wasn’t the only comedian to struggle with depression when the lights went out. I wasn’t unique. I wasn’t the only one who struggled the same way. I had to accept that unless I could find a way to, for lack of a better description, coexist with myself there was a very real possibility of taking my own life.

Finally, the ultimatum. “You need to get help, or you need to go.” The proverbial straw. The stark realization that by selfishly looking inward, assuming my issues didn’t extend past myself, I was not seeing the negative impact I was having on my family and friends. My church family recognized I wasn’t my usual jovial self. My wife and kids bore the brunt of my turmoil when my guard would come down and life’s curveballs skewed the status quo, things as simple as DVDs out of alphabetical order or having to reorganize a mental agenda to accommodate an unforeseen event.

I had to admit I was not okay.

I had to swallow my pride and admit that the male idea of not showing weakness was, ironically, weak.

I had to become remarkably real or lose it all.

That turn began with a phone call to a psychologist from a vacant office at work. I didn’t even know how to start. When the world caves in around you, where do you begin? I laid it out. Laid it all out, and pleaded for help, knowing only that I could no longer help myself.

I had finally allowed remarkably real me to the surface.

Thus began Lloyd 2.0. It would take months, in some cases years, of diagnoses, prescriptions and dosages to feel complete. To not feel ashamed that I had to turn to medication in order to function and accept that admitting to having mental health issues did not mean admitting to being anything less than a loved, and loving, whole creation.

Am I still flawed? Yes. I have depression. I have obsessive-compulsive behaviors. I have ADHD. I never listen to slow music and rarely watch dramas for fear of getting too close to the dark again. I often back out, or not even attend, events where there are more than immediate family because of social anxiety. But I have a quality of life I didn’t have before. I can take control of moments when those moments used to take control of me. I can be creative. I can be jovial and quick-witted without feeling it’s a front.

I can be remarkably real me and not fear that I will be shunned as a result.

Hm. Perhaps there is a second undeniable truth: overcoming the scope and depth of one’s unreality is what it takes to become remarkably real.

Happy trails,

Lloyd