I want to write, but I’m not ready. Not ready to tell this story locked inside. Not yet.
When I have secrets, they consume me. They naw at my thoughts and dig their way into my spirit splitting me in two. One side is content with me, understanding, accepting what is–as is…The other, is completely effected. Infected…leaky, swollen, full of puss… THAT side, that infected consuming side, whispers in my ear songs of shame and guilt. The record is on constant replay. It is loud. It echos. It leaks into my daily life, questions my worth, rattles my self-esteem. I try to shake it, try to out run it…try to drown it with alcohol or sugar, or bacon. Sometimes it works…..
Normally I am an open book. What you see is what you get. I like it that way. It’s easy. More days than not, I’m happy, content, secure….Secrets take far too much out of me. I purposely try to avoid sipping their poison. I don’t do things that require secrets. I like my life simple, easy…secret free.
I know myself to well…I know that nasty girl who lives inside where it is dark and cramped. She screams insults at me. Her Rolodex of all my wrongs are right at her finger tips and glide off her tongue. She smiles at my failures with a knowing look, eyebrows raised, lips pursed… That look…that look kills me. Her bite is painful…..I don’t know her name but her voice sounds an awful lot like mine. When I’m hiding, It doesn’t feel like my skin. It feels like hers.
I’m biding my time with this story, keeping her at bay with a stick..I hear her snears..feel her pokes….but I fear the outside voices more than her’s. At least her voice is familiar….
I’m hiding…I know it. I’m choosing it.