Cindy didn't have any objection to shedding her veils, but she was tangled in knots of inarticulate shyness. She had to learn the art of self-disclosure from the ground up. I use the term art advisedly. I believe even if you're a bullheaded truckdriver with the emotional range of a stump, developing an ability to disclose will require—at least temporarily—that you become a self-disclosing artist. There are several different ways to awaken the artist in yourself, starting with:
1. Let your body talk. You could assemble a group of mothers from Zimbabwe, Greenland, and New York, have them describe what it was like to give birth, and rest assured that they would soon be weeping for one another's pain and laughing at one another's jokes without any need for interpreters. Lacking a common language, they would speak in Body, the communicative code of gesture, movement, and facial expression shared by all people. If you're not able to articulate what you feel or believe, you can use this code to let your deep self talk to your conscious, verbal mind.
Cindy and I started using this process shortly after she rejected my suggestion that she find another coach. I had her describe to me, in as much detail as possible, some of the best and worst experiences of her life. Her words were few and halting, but the more she tried to describe these events, the more Cindy's body unconsciously began to express profound experiences: hands moving protectively toward her throat or opening into starbursts of excitement; eyes narrowing in anger, then widening in astonishment; shoulders hunching, drooping, squaring off for combat. Every so often I'd ask Cindy to freeze, and we'd talk about what we thought her body was trying to convey.
You can use a similar method alone or (better) with a buddy or counselor or (best) with a group of friends. As you talk about a problem or prospect you're facing, ask yourself and your observers what your body is expressing. When I do this in seminars, I'm amazed by how much information people get from one another's physical signals, how sensitively they can interpret nuances of feeling, and how much consensus exists, even in large groups, about what any given person's body is expressing. If your mind isn't sure what you're feeling, you'll be amazed what you can learn from and say with your body.
2. Fumble for words. Despite the power of body language, we are ineluctably verbal creatures; words usually end up being our preferred means of self-disclosure. Most of us don't realize that humans have barely begun using language to describe subjective experiences. Until a paltry few centuries ago, most people were far too busy surviving to spend time discussing thoughts and feelings. Many of the words we use to describe psychological phenomena (depression, excitement, humor) were originally used to refer to physical objects or actions (a concave surface, the initiation of motion, bodily fluid). These words were adapted almost fancifully to describe feelings or thoughts. They stuck because no better alternatives existed.
Since using words to capture and convey experience is so new, I think we should all consider ourselves verbal pioneers, pushing back the boundaries of the wild frontier, groping for the words to express things that may never have been expressed before. If you're intimidated by the thought of saying the Wrong Thing, try deliberately playing fast and loose with words. Most of us censor and edit ourselves when the words that pop into our minds aren't sensible. If Shakespeare had thought this way, he might have written, "That's a hurtful thing to say," instead of, "These words like daggers enter in mine ears." The second sentence is less factual, but we can feel its meaning viscerally. When it comes to self-disclosure, choose guts over grammar. Say what comes up.
When Cindy began to experiment with voicing her first thoughts, rather than the "right" answer, I immediately began to understand her better. "I feel like my head is full of sand," she said one day, "with a bird in it." Then she blushed and apologized, "That makes no sense!" But it made perfect sense to me. I could feel the clogged thickness of Cindy's brain in my own head, sense the fluttering, winged thing that was buried alive inside it. My inner life had connected with Cindy's, and her emotional isolation began dissolving.
Try writing down the phrase "I feel like a ———" and then toss out the first ten nouns that come to mind: pizza, orchid, sword, whatever. Now read over what you've written and see what rings true. Do you really feel like an orchid? In what way? Be as irrational as you can be. The less you keep the rules, the more your mind will begin to use words as vehicles to convey the sense of your experience, rather than as rigid structures that limit your thoughts and feelings.