The Long Exhale
by Anthony Arnold
July 2020
When I woke up this morning, I didn’t know what to put here. But I knew that I had to say something. My job, as a writer, is to try to highlight some aspect of the world and explain it; to try and pick apart something, and make it “make sense.”
But, I struggle with that at times. And I never struggle with it more, at times like these; because the things that are being said are not the things that are worth saying. Does that make sense?
We can talk about what the Derek Chauvin case means. We can break down the various ways that this decision could play itself out. We could chase the branches, and the offshoots, and we can think about the future. We can try to “game out” all the possibilities, and we can try to figure out where that takes us.
But, at a moment like this, is that the thing worth talking about?
I don’t think so.
I think what really matters is that this morning I took a breath. I exhaled, when I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath at all. I felt a release, and a dam broke. Something came out of me, and I knew at that moment that was the thing worth writing about.
It’s been about a week since the verdict, and I can already see things moving back to “normal.” The old political arguments are taking shape again. People are debating this and that, the sides are returning to their respective corners, and the battle lines are being drawn, once again.
We move on so fast, that I’m not sure we stop to let ourselves process how we feel about any of this.
And that’s the stuff that really matters.
The feelings that we all have are not secondary to any of this. They are the point. The point of living is to feel things. It’s to share those feelings with others. It’s to seek, as best we can, connection with others.
But none of that is possible if we aren’t open. How can others ever get in if we don’t open the door, first?
So this is me, opening the door. This is me, trying as best I can, to live the life I want others to live. I am trying my best to embody the change.
Allow me to be open with you, Dear Reader. Allow me to be open with you, before my senses and fear get the best of me.
I was scared, last week. The minute I heard the verdict was coming, I felt abject fear. Sheer terror. I was seized by it. The arrival of that feeling is one I know well. It’s the fear I feel when I see sirens in my mirror. It’s the fear I feel when I turn on the news and realize they’re talking about black people being killed by police, yet again.
That fear is one of my oldest friends at this point. I operate in an environment of constant fear at this point. So when I got the news, I was afraid that the worst thing would happen again. That we, as a people, would receive yet another psychic blow. Does that make me sound like an abuse victim?
Maybe, but who’s to say that’s inappropriate? Are we not victims?
We suffer, daily now, from various emotional batterings. Like a ship blown around by storms, we are tossed around. We are pulled first one way, then another. And every time we are denied the chance to process. To make sense of how we feel. By the time we’ve started to figure one thing out, we’re told to move on to something else. We don’t take the time to sit with things.
But let us sit, even if it’s just a moment, with the news. Let us sit together, join in fellowship on this page, and try to see each other. If nothing else, then maybe you can see me.
If my first feeling was one of fear, then my reaction to that fear was to hide away. When you come to expect only the worst, then you learn how to live with it. It’s truly remarkable what you can learn to live with -- what you can learn to survive.
You can survive fear. You will struggle to thrive, but you can survive. So I survive my fear by locking my heart away. I bottle my emotions up, stuff them somewhere deep down, and I put on my disguise. And that’s what I did during the 90 minute wait.
I sat, filled with fear, and I held my breath.
But then the news came, and I didn’t exhale. At first, I thought I didn’t feel anything. Which I knew, on an intellectual level, wasn’t true. But emotionally, that’s what was happening. I wasn’t reacting at all.
I now realize that I’ve internalized the fear to a much greater degree than I thought was possible. It’s become such a part of me that it prevents me from even appreciating the good news. That my basic ability to celebrate good things is compromised by my fear of the bad things.
That was a hell of a thing to realize. To see your pain. I mean really see it. To hold up a mirror to yourself, and realize that it’s broken. That the reflection looking back at you is so scarred, so traumatized, that you can’t even hide from it anymore.
You can lie to yourself. You can even do it well. You can rationalize. You can make excuses. You can come up with any number of explanations to answer the question of “How did I get this way?” And if we’re being honest, you can probably get away with it. You can live an entire life selling yourself one fiction after another. I’m guessing most of us do.
But is that life you want to live?
Is it not better to release it? If so, then this requires vulnerability. It requires you to send your emotions into the void, without knowing if there’s anything on the other side. It requires you to expose yourself to all those things you’re told to be afraid of. It requires faith.
But it’s the only way. The path forward doesn’t just require policy. It doesn’t just require facts.
It requires us to be open with each other. It requires us to be willing to hurt in front of each other. To be expressive with each other. To be human with each other.
It requires you to see me, as I aim; and it requires me to allow myself to be seen. I have to show you my heart, my soul.And my soul was so wounded that I couldn’t even react for most of that day a week ago.
I felt it bubbling up, of course. I was short with those around me. Distant. Not entirely present. And, I knew why; because my head and heart were processing, working through the complicated emotions of the moment.
When I woke up the following morning, I took a breath. I finally exhaled.
It felt good to let joy, even if only temporary, come shining through. To celebrate, if only for a moment. To recognize that it was ok to feel happy. That it wasn’t a betrayal to be pleased. It wasn’t a sin to feel vindicated. How can it be?
Right after that, I made a decision.
I don't want to hoard this feeling. I want to share it. I want to tell the world how I felt at that moment, because I’m guessing I’m not alone. I’m guessing I’m not the only person whose heart has become a jumbled up mess. I’m not the only one who has felt confused.
It’s not a crime to feel that way. It’s human. It’s natural. It’s ordinary.
I am normal.
You are normal.
We are normal.
The pain, confusion, terror, anger, and the rage? All of it is normal.
Love, jealousy, frustration, and tribalism? Normal.
My emotions are normal. So are yours. We don’t have to feel ashamed of these things. We don’t have to run from these things. We have to embrace these things.
I don’t know what the future looks like. I’m not Nostradamus. I can’t even tell you what the weather will be like tomorrow. But I know that almost all of us want a future that’s better than this present, a future where things have improved, a future where our deep divisions are healed; where we are together.
But we can’t get there without openness. We can’t get there without being willing to love, and be loved. We can’t get there without being vulnerable. Without being weak.
So this is me, telling you, that I’m weak. I’m vulnerable. I feel fear, while I wait for bad news. I feel cynical, at the possibility of change. But I smile when the news is good, and I cry when nobody watches.
So do you.