I often feel like a walking oxymoron. I teach people about communication, yet don’t always do a great job communicating effectively. Even though I talk about improving relationships, I tend to avoid working on my own. Perhaps one of the biggest issues, though, is that despite living in chronic pain for the vast majority of my life, I struggle to tell people about my pain.

Growing up in an abusive home, I quickly learned that I wasn’t expected to be my own person. Instead, I was expected to provide comfort and solace for others. That has affected every single day of my life thus far and, despite all the work I’ve done to grow, will probably be a factor until the day I die. It’s caused fights, even with how much I know I can and should share.

It isn’t just that I struggle to show my weak points to others… although, it’s naturally hard to be that vulnerable with others. For me, though, it runs into the conditioning I grew up with, and that’s a hard series of indoctrinations that’s not easy to move past.

Even though I’ve made a name for myself by sharing things with random strangers on the internet – hi! – I still would rather listen to others than talk. Hell, I literally work for an organization where I problem-solve for fellow disabled and chronically ill people and help them feel heard.

At home, I listen to every noise our guinea pigs make. We completely get each other, and I know when they’re asking for snacks. When they get frustrated or annoyed, I can tell and change things up accordingly.

My husband is… another story.

A decade ago, we sat in his car listening to music. He told me how he wanted to be here for me – to share in the burden of my illnesses. For such a long time, I was used to fighting things alone and that was taking its toll on our relationship.

The problem is that we’re both listeners. When we hurt, we both turn inward and crave isolation over interacting with others. I tend to do this with physical pain or when I’m dealing with a Post-Traumatic Stress episode. I may not always be in the best headspace, but it’s usually something that passes quickly.

TJ’s major depression doesn’t operate like that.

In recent years, he’s been able to start sharing more about what he’s facing. Often, though, I have to pull information out like dentists pull teeth. Each nugget of information sits there waiting for these invisible verbal pliers that, combined with reassuring snuggles, finally get the job done.

Every time his depression gets worse, so does my physical pain. Naturally, I haven’t shared that with him because it would be easy to use that as an excuse to avoid sharing… well, it could be if TJ was married to someone who couldn’t read him well.

When TJ shares things with me freely and openly, it changes the dynamics of our relationship. We stop being two people trying to protect each other by denying what we’re each facing. Instead, like adults, we accept each other’s illnesses and try to help where we can.

If that’s not the best reason to be more forthcoming with our own personal struggles, I don’t know what is.

Make sure to check out Lene’s piece, When Strong Gets In The Way. If you missed our Facebook Live, you can always watch it below: