I really wish we hadn’t been out of touch for the most of nine years, but getting reacquainted with one of my first roommates could not have been better timed. We talked on the phone for an hour and a half, a marathon for me, and she recounted her life since we parted ways: her complete breakdown, her miscarriage and divorce, her family’s endless trials. We spoke as openly and honestly to each other as we always had. Neither of us glossed over the sad parts of our lives to only show our successes. Neither of us thinks less of each other know that we know the truth, and our friendship is as strong as ever.
She and I have a history of telling it like it is to each other. But we both will admit to not sharing as much with others. I’m not sure how to overcome the social pressure to only tell happy stories. I don’t necessarily think we should go around only telling of our heartbreaks, but I think there needs to be a balance.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I’ve said this elsewhere but I’ll say it again. It’s perfectly acceptable to say that your pancreas doesn’t work and you need to take insulin. It’s less acceptable to admit that your brain chemistry is off and you need to take anti-depressants. It is equally less acceptable to admit that your life didn’t follow as smooth a path as you had hoped. The thing is, no one’s life has.