"Trade Your Secrets and Become Who You Are"

Have you ever had a secret?  Not like something trivial, but more like a whole part of you that people don’t know about?
I think there’s a huge societal stigma associated with secrets.  I’ve found that as a teenager I’m not supposed to have any secrets.  You’re supposed to share everything good with your parents (grades, boyfriends, jobs, college news), and you share everything bad with your friends (staying out too late, getting drunk at a party, or getting a tattoo on your butt…sorry parents, but Alice knew first).  However, as a woman it feels like you’re not supposed to broadcast your personal life…which can prove to be a little confusing.  Blame it on the feminine mystique I suppose.  I hate having parts of my life that no one can know about.  It’s painful; like holding a heavy stone in your heart.
Keeping one part of your life a secret is never easy.  I remember I went to a HOPE training last year (H.ealthO.utreachP.eerE.ducators), and I heard a speaker who said that being gay and in the closet was like having to leave out an entire piece of your life in EVERY conversation you have with someone.  I don’t want to live my life like that.  I want to exist with no alternative me, what you see is what you get.  I do have parts of my life that are secretive, but I don’t think I have anything about myself that absolutely NO ONE knows.

I’m writing this with something specific in mind…before my mother reads this and texts me to ask what’s wrong…I’m not depressed, ill or making myself ill, I don’t have another tattoo, I’m not doing drugs, and I’m not failing any classes.  I just have parts of my life that aren’t always on display for everyone, and I’m simply pondering why things have to be that way: why we as humans feel the need for secrets.

You don’t have to pretend in order to be loved and cared for.  There’s nothing wrong with loving who you are.  Secrets are directly related to avoidance.

On a completely unrelated note, I saw the literary magazine that my poem was published in.  There were a stack of copies in the student center.  I picked one up just so I could read my name in print: there’s something magical about knowing your name had the potential to make its way into someone else’s mind. Maybe I’m just narcissistic.




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