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On a submarine, the greatest danger often comes in the form of steam. The steam is superheated to such a degree that it becomes invisible, and if it leaks it can become an undetectable hazard. One would only notice it after being hurt.

In my years in therapy I developed an expansive lexicon. It ranges from the granular: words like rejection sensitivity, emotional incest, codependency, generational trauma; to broad categories like neuro divergence, CPTSD, cluster B. Through language I can give shape to my suffering, I can comprehend and reflect and ultimately try to heal.

My parents engage in a kind of reflexive, defensive ignorance in that words like those get broadly lumped in to a “Not my thing,” pile, where their engagement with new ideas starts and ends with distrustful dismissal. Bring up mental health and you might get a “Well…” that trails off to nothing, a nervous glance away and a change of subject. Whether that’s their disdain for the nuances of language broadly or their insecurity about mental health specifically is hard to say. Probably both.

But they’re still people. Just because they don’t have the words or the desire to understand them doesn’t mean those things don’t affect them. Instead mental health becomes the invisible steam; loved ones hurt each other with no rhyme or reason, anger or paranoia is spontaneous and overwhelming, relationships wilt and die in silence. It’s as normal to them as water is to a fish.

But water doesn’t hurt fish.