People in general seem to have a tendency to be more secretive than absolutely necessary. Whether it is because they lead a sketchy existance or because of fear that someone will use their secrets against them, it's hard to say. All I know is that it seems to me that the older I get the more private I have seen people become and I don't know what that means but I sure wish I did.
My life is an open book. To an extent, this blog has been evidence that I don't really conceal very many things. I've written about some of my most personal experiences and even when at times I have felt exposed for doing it, I've just let it be because this is who I am and I can't hide it nor will I apologize for it. In my everyday existance I am even more open to interaction. I am a storyteller, a listener, and someone who when faced by a straight forward question, will always give a straight forward answer.
I used to think that there were no skeletons in my closet. Nothing I have ever done has seemed so bad or shameful that I have had to let it go and forget about it. I mean, there is that one thing that happened that one time but it's not a skeleton because it shames me or makes me a bad person, but simply because it is a secret that needs safeguarding.
A few days ago I was out with my friend Yvette L., whose grandma just passed away. There aren't very many things you can say to a person who has had such an important loss. I mean, she loved her grandma, she believes in heaven, but there is the lingering question of what happens when you are dead. I offered her my shoulder to cry on but she wanted to talk and although our beliefs about life and death are nowhere near similar, I can always do that.
We talked for hours. We talked until she made her sad face. We talked until I cried. We talked until we were asked to leave from Caribbean Coffee.
Somewhere in our conversation I remembered that I have two skeletons in my closet and those are all mine. Not things I've done, but things that have happened that have deeply affected me. I think I have only told two people about one (and that was just to keep my sanity) and the other I never spoke about with anyone. Not even the people who were there. I really believed that it would go away.
And it did. For a while. I never again thought of that unfortunate situation until Yvette opened up to me. Until I had to explain how I felt about something as natural as is death. It came rushing back to me as if it were happening all over again. And I told her about it because I knew that in some ways it would help her feel better, and because I know that she will keep my secret no matter what.
To speak about something that I've tried for so many years to not think about was the hardest thing I've ever had to do; and yet, I am somewhat relieved that I did it. Although this isn't something I intend to speak of ever again, I now feel that the load of this secret is lighter because I share it with someone and whatever negative feelings I may have had about that one experience have been diminished because my negatives became someone else's positive.
In many ways keeping these two secrets have shaped me into the person I am. But once again, I need to remember to forget...