Please unload your FUS. Today.

When I was in grad school at Lehigh, I remember being in this class.

I don’t remember exactly what class it was or what it was that we were doing, but it was one of those exercises where you sit in a small group and you share an observation about the other members of the group.

And one of the deans of students at Lehigh was actually taking the class, and he was in my group.

And when he got to me, he said something along the lines of,

Susie’s sense of humor makes me think that she’s gone through some really difficult things in her life, and that she uses humor as a way to deal with it.

He had no idea that a couple years earlier my three-year-old brother had died of leukemia.

That I had watched him gradually deteriorate.

That he had died in my parents’ bed.

A few years later, in my first year of teaching fourth grade, I had a report card conference with the mom of one of my students.

He was a very talented artist.

He made these really funny comics.

They were pretty impressive for anyone, but especially for a nine-year-old.

He was a sensitive kid.

And at that conference, his mom told me that just the night before her son had woken up crying.

That he had come to her and said,

Mom? Why must artists suffer?

I’ve never forgotten that.

Kind of a fucked up thing for a fourth grader to say.

He must have already been fighting his own demons.

Extremes are rarely one-sided.

And what you see on the outside is often nowhere near a reflection of what is going on on the inside.

Flawless models with no self esteem.

Conservative kindergarten teachers who are drug addicts.

Genius comics who are battling thoughts of suicide.

When I was in college, I got the Positive Mental Attitude award on the swim team.

Two years in a row.

On the outside, I apparently seemed happy.

And positive.

I wasn’t.

Over the course of the next eighteen years, I did a pretty good job hiding major depression behind  lots of jokes and being the life of the party.

I also tried a bunch of other things to deal with the pain on the inside that I didn’t want other people to see.

Drugs.

Sex.

Alcohol.

More drugs.

More sex.

More alcohol.

None of it worked.

Eventually I OD’d on a bottle of pills, ended up in the nuthouse, and faced the prospect of losing my kids.

I lucked out.

But that scared the shit out of me.

And that’s one of the reasons I put everything out there now.

Keeping secrets is tiring.

Draining.

Exhausting.

I have shared some fucked up shit (FUS), and you know what?

People still like me.

They still like me!

In fact, some people have told me they like me more now that I’ve shared the FUS.

If you are carrying some FUS around, tell somebody.

You are not the only one who has been there.

Whatever FUS you have done, you are not the only one who has done it.

Whatever FUS you have thought, you are not the only one who has thought it.

Really.

You’re not.

Here’s another thing.

Sometimes you think you are hiding a secret, but you’re not.

Sometimes other people know.

And so all this energy that you are expending keeping this secret is just a waste.

Just as taking your own life would be.

Lighten the load.

It can get better.

It really can.

All you have to do is ask for help.

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