Telling Secrets

1/17/2005

I stared at this once empty page earlier hoping for inspiration to jump off at me – some recalled memory, but nothing doing – just me telling secrets.

Maybe that’s all there is, you know. Us getting to the place where we aren’t scared any longer of the truth, of the past, of our own insanity, or our slow healing. Maybe that’s all there really is and then we pass it on. I really doubt we are to hoard such knowledge to our heaving, lust-filled breast like some sparkling treasure shored up for us and only us. So often our speech reflects that of two-year-olds. "Mine", we cry at each other. "All mine – go get your own".

I wonder how much pain would be alleviated if EVERYONE shared. Reached out and touched someone with what they have learned – without being a real snotty pain in the ass about it. Without playing the one upmanship game with each other – without singing the tired song of " my pain’s deeper than your pain."

The stereo is turned up like I’m trying to drown out of my thoughts.

When I come to this page, I want to live out in freedom. I do not want to be silenced…I want to tell secrets and not be afraid.

I remember the time I uttered the words "He is and alcoholic and it bothers me" in my parent’s house. The hush was almost tangible. So was the terrible silence I was met with for days after. I was shunned for speaking the truth. But I still burst with the need to tell secrets.

We learned to ignore the terrible lie. We learned to smile and be the ‘fun’ family to all who were looking in. Neighborhood kids would come to our house because to their knowledge, there was a lack of rules – at least that’s what one guy told me. They could drink (a lot), cuss, smoke, view porno movies with my brother – and they thought it so cool…and we pretended. Never mind the silent guest in the house like:

Johnny Walker Red - he and my father were really good friends. They would converge at the end of the cigarette burned dining table nightly and have silent talks and recall quiet memories. My father would look longingly at his mate – and his friend would stare back, "it’s ok, I’m here for you – drink with me – drink me in" – and he, the obedient slave would drink him in deeply.

Angry Manipulation – my mothers’ favorite companion. What a bitch she is! Stoic, defeated, fierce, unpredictable…a moment would turn quickly – she was like a bear trap – lure them in with honey, then torture them – don’t kill them, just make sure they do not live. Make marks to show your power but not where anyone can see them – and her friend would laugh behind those eyes…and her other friends remained silent…

They stayed silent...why???

Since coming into my adulthood, some of my parents cronies have admitted knowing what was going on behind the closed doors and smiles…but no one yet has been able to tell me why they remained silent…

So now I’m telling secrets – still scared in some ways but not fearful. I’ve heard that it’s our secrets which make us sick…it’s the secrets that kill to a lasting death…secrets…they are a living death.

zss

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