Chad Herst

My cousin David recently came in from Australia. He read the first part of the book, and the other day he asked whether, once it was finished and launched, I could relax a little. Give myself a breather.

God, no, I said.

I meant it a little tongue in cheek, but if I’m honest, there’s still a lot to be done. Reviews to ask for, interviews to pitch, bookstores to approach. I can still feel the momentum of everything that has to come once it’s launched. And yet, there’s this other part of me asking, can you put it down? Can this just be enough?

But there is something else in my reluctance to stop. Alongside that anxiety, I also feel this joy, and I’m kind of afraid that if I do slow down, that will vanish.

You see, preparing for this launch has brought me out of my shell. Through newsletters like this, posts, emails, and conversations, I’ve been using my voice in a bigger and wider way than I have in years, perhaps ever. I’m reaching out and I’m reconnecting to people I haven’t been connected to in years.

That part of me that said, God, no, doesn’t want this to end. If I relax, well, maybe the party will end.

That part of me is afraid of going back to that period that led me to write the book in the first place. You might have called what I was experiencing depression, but I think withdrawal describes it better. I was preoccupied with work and seeing clients, keeping a kind of minimum engagement with the world.

You see, I’ve been through this before. I know what it’s like to get involved in the world, then get tired, and then pull back. Now that I’m feeling more connected, that part of me is afraid that slowing down will mean withdrawing again.

And it reminds me of an old criticism I experienced as a child, where my dad would say, Chad, you’re isolating.

I think my dad just wanted me more engaged in the world, to feel connected, but that word feels like a judgment. On top of the withdrawing, there’s this shame about the withdrawal.

That word brings me back to being a fourteen-year-old boy.

My brother is in and out of drug rehab. His mental illness is beginning to show up. And this family that I come from, that looked fine from the outside, is starting to come apart. At the same time, it’s my first year in high school and I’m struggling to make friends. Even though my grandfather is sick with cancer, he’s my one ally. He’s sweet and deeply loving. Even he, though, wasn’t encouraging me to stay with my feelings. That wasn’t a value in our family. And given everything that was happening, those feelings were pretty vast.

There was a lot of shit going down, and pulling back was about all I could do to manage it all. And how was I supposed to explain any of it to any of my friends, particularly when I didn’t come from a family that talked about those kinds of things?

Even as I write this, I can feel the gravity of what that boy was up against. The ache is right here in my chest, and I have so much tenderness for him, that fourteen-year-old boy who was carrying all of that.

I can feel how much it would have meant to have someone there who could have said, yeah, this is a lot, and I’ll feel this with you. We’ll hold it together.

Those are the words I want to say to him now.

I got you. I’m seeing you and I’m with you. You’re not alone.

As I say that, there’s a sweet ache in the center of my chest, and an appreciation for his strength, for what he managed to endure. I want him to know that maybe it’s okay not to have to carry this on his own anymore.

I think much of what has driven me since those years has been the lack of that contact. There are people in my life now who offer that kind of company, and it can still be hard to let myself receive it. I still have so much of that proving energy that I just tend to override the ache.

But staying with that boy now, I can feel what he’s longing for. He doesn’t want to isolate. He wants to be seen, to have someone with him in what he’s feeling. He didn’t know how to reach out for that then. He did what he could with what was available to him.

But today, I have more choice. I can feel him and I can stay. I can begin to let myself receive the contact that’s available in my life now. The ache no longer has to remain something I carry all by myself.

I wonder whether sharing this book could be part of that. At fourteen, I didn’t really know how to tell another person what was going on. There wasn’t language for that in my family. Now there are words for what I carried, and now I can let other people see it.

Maybe there’s a gift in sharing the ache, too. I don’t mean that with this launch, there will be some glorious moment when it all makes sense. But as I share this book, perhaps someone else will feel permission to acknowledge what they’ve been carrying. And perhaps letting that fourteen-year-old boy be seen can bring some healing to me, too.

Maybe you recognize something of your own ache here as you’ve been reading or listening to this. You might have been fourteen, or twelve, or ten. There’s nothing weird or strange about having an ache you haven’t known how to share. I’m letting that boy be seen, and perhaps it can help you feel a little less alone with all you’ve been carrying yourself.