In a culture of contradiction, pendulumming between cherished authenticity and the art of the perfect mask, it has become nearly imperative that one seeks life by defying societal norms and braving the waves of vulnerability. Vulnerability, as it were, seems attractive. It’s life-giving, inspiring the hope that someone values you enough to let you show them your mess, to take off your mask, take a gasp of fresh air, and let them see all the cracks and wrinkles underneath. It seems that, in vulnerability, both the teller and the hearer can, for once, gain a sense of fulfillment, of release— of liberation even— from the oppression of a culturally prescribed solitary confinement. The freedom found in vulnerability: it just makes you feel so alive.
There’s a problem that can quickly arise, though, when vulnerability becomes the root of any relationship— You’ve been locked up behind your mask for so long, do you even know how to live free anymore? It’s no doubt you would rather more than just a glimpse of freedom, but, after all these years, do you really know how to foster that freedom and turn it into a lifestyle?
I see vulnerability more like a spark than a flame, powerful when directed into the right conditions, but how long will it keep you warm if you don’t prepare for its quick burn? Isn’t it fair, then, to say that diving into freedom through vulnerability might just leave you feeling exposed, used, cold, and, well… vulnerable?
Have you ever seen Shawshank Redemption?
Even though the movie is mostly set inside Shawshank State Penitentiary, a couple of scenes are dedicated to portraying the post-release life of some long-serving inmates. One such inmate, an elderly man named Brooks, has the prisoners’ lifestyle of being controlled and confined so entrenched in his being that fear of being released drives him to nearly kill a guy just so he doesn’t have to leave. When he does get released, the freedom is so overwhelming that he can’t cope.
“I don’t like it here,” He writes in a letter, “I’m tired of being afraid all the time. I’ve decided not to stay.”
And so, knowing too, deep down, that the point of life isn’t to live in prison, he not only chooses to end his freedom, but feels there’s no other option but to end his life as well. Forty-nine years of waiting for the sweet taste of freedom, and he sabotages it all in just a few days. Overwhelmed, exposed, and afraid.
Yes, it’s drastic, but I’d argue that it’s exactly what so many of us do over and over again when it comes to our relationships and friendships. We invest so much time, energy, worry, and emotion into finding people with whom we can safely let down our walls, naïve to the possible consequences of vulnerability unleashed. We dream of the perfect relationship— that one person— who will love us for us and with whom we can just be naturally ourselves. Authenticity demands release, driving a longing for us to liberate the real, raw being we’ve locked up inside— so we wait. We wait for love, understanding, and acceptance. We keep it all tucked away, waiting for someone who might fight to dig through the walls we’ve built around our true selves. We wait for that day when finally, after all the rejection, we might be set free.
Waiting. Masking. Pretending. Hiding.
And so here you are, waiting out your sentence— but don’t they all say that prison changes a man?
Waiting. Masking. Pretending. Hiding… What kind of person are you being made into?
You wait for change, not seeing the way it changes you, and the taste of freedom becomes much too rich for your palate.
Finally, when you get that long-awaited taste, it’s too much.
You spit it right back out, or even worse, you choke on it.
Prisoners can’t handle freedom. They can’t handle having all they’ve known, everything they’ve learned to live by, stripped away. They end up either living as if they were still in jail out in the free world or end up, very soon, right back in prison. (Serial dating, anyone?)
It’s obvious there needs to be some sort of transition— a break in the cycle, a reestablishment of control, a rediscovery of self-identity. The same must be said for us and our relationships.
There is hope though, because, when it comes to the walls of imprisonment surrounding your personal identity, the only one laying bricks is you. Sure, you’re being told where to build and how to build, but maybe the key to real, lasting freedom is understanding what kind of building the plans you’ve been handed are actually going to produce.
Here’s how I see it: Without deeper understanding, a vulnerability-focused relationship, much like the type society promotes, will always demand more. It’s a needy relationship, a fragile one, requiring two things to survive: deeper vulnerability and obligatory acceptance. To disrupt this rhythm is to put a crack in the relationship’s foundation. Fail to fulfill your prescribed role, and all connection begins to shatter. Too much friction, and the paper house you built together burns to the ground. All that remains are the ashes of a reality in disarray, and both individuals can’t help but feel broken, used, and betrayed.
It’s a story we know all too well, isn’t it? Our relationships have been reduced to a set of transactions, contracts even— and the relational economy never sleeps. Our accounts are always empty and we’re never satisfied, piling up the interest by digging deeper for vulnerabilities we can use as credit. We buy into society’s sales pitch for a knockoff. We’re held captive by the latest and the greatest because a secret’s novelty quickly fades. Without realizing what’s happening, we continually give more and more of ourselves as we become fully absorbed in the commercial craze of counterfeit stability. We hollow our hearts out, amassing massive debt and bankrupting ourselves of whole, authentic living. Should we really wonder why we walk around feeling so empty?
Forget to share your latest news, and you put your friendships at risk. Hide a part of yourself, and they’ll label you a fraud. Isn’t it ironic though, that we’ve learned to pay for counterfeit stability with our counterfeit selves?
Contracts have terms and conditions, but they don’t leave room for humanity. No contract will ever last and disappointment will always come. Trust will always be broken and standards will always fail to be met.
And so, we learn. We learn how risky it is to sign a contract, but, knowing it’s how the world works, we learn to sign in evasive ways. Why use the real stuff when they’ll take the fake? We learn to lock away the substance of ourselves and spend token replacements instead. We buy into our relationships by “monopoly money” means, and then wonder why they have no real, lasting value. We build up walls of fake identity, and then question how in the world we got so trapped.
Maybe a counterfeit life is just a prison in disguise…
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