Sunday, March 18, 2012


…I wish I could tell you everything. I wish I was that brave.
I’ve never told anyone everything.
Have you?
Confession doesn't count. In Confession, you're only speaking to a screen or a big bald face behind a screen.
I’ve come close. I’ve gotten to eighty percent a time or two. I’ve walked them right to the edge, then turned away.
I’m afraid of heights.
A lot of what I’d tell you is embarrassing, bordering on shameful. Okay, really shameful.
It would be hard to tell you those things.
I share the good stuff with anyone and everyone who will listen. The bad stuff I keep hidden in the bottom of my sock drawer, in the attic, buried under some rubble in the backyard.
You might not think my bad things are that bad. Or you might.
Perhaps you'd make excuses for me. Maybe you'd say, "But that was so long ago." Or, "But look at your fucked-up childhood." Or, "You're human; no one's perfect."
Maybe you have a backpack of Get Out Of (Guilt) Jail Free cards.
What about best friends--shouldn't you be able to share your dark stuff with them? Yes, I think so. I think that's the way it's supposed to work and the reason you have best friends in the first place.
How about you? Does your best friend know everything about you?
Secrets are scary, I don't l know why. Or I do know why.
Of course I know why. You do, too.
It would take a lot of balls to be completely honest. You'd need to be in a place where it was safe, where no one would judge, where everyone else was damaged and just as vulnerable.
Some people probably tell their therapists everything. They pay a lot of money for a shrink and so it doesn't make sense to fluff up a story or omit things to the person you're incenting to help fix or cure you.
I guess a lot of us die with our secrets tied in a box somewhere, buried where no one can get hurt.
And maybe that's the right thing after all.

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