Psst … I Have a Secret
Don’t tell anyone
Some secrets are not meant to be told; these secrets are kept so close to the heart that they’re not even written in journals.
Some secrets are only meant for certain people to hear, and to only be shared in quiet voices. Mere whispers really. Some are shared only in the dark.
Some secrets start as something that can’t be spoken or written, and then evolve to secrets whispered between select people. Eventually becoming something that simply needs to be released. To be spoken. To ease the intensity and stress of keeping the secret at all.
Some secrets are kept to protect; some secrets are told to expose.
Almost all of my secrets stem from my childhood. Secrets of shame really. Secrets kept to protect, although I could not say for sure who. The abusers or the abused. Secrets that I believe will cause people to judge me unfavourably. A belief that I’m not even sure where it came from.
The interesting thing I’ve found about secrets, my secrets at least, is that the underlying fear of what would happen if they were found out is slowly dissipating.
I couldn’t journal them, whisper them, or speak them out loud. Not at the beginning.
My secrets laid dormant for decades. Showing up in the most unexpected ways.
My secrets had secrets.
They affected how I felt about myself, and therefore how I showed up in the world. They showed up as not believing in myself, not feeling worthy, safe, or loved. They left me feeling like I didn’t belong. Like I had done something wrong. Something that I couldn’t be forgiven for.
I finally started to release my secrets through the messy first draft of my memoir. All of it handwritten in journals. My body trembling as I wrote. The energy so intense that I would be exhausted after only a short time. I continually reminded myself that I wasn’t telling. All of my secrets, placed within the pages of my journal, were safe from possibly being exposed. Just so long as the journals weren’t shared with anyone.
It took a couple of years before I was able to hint that I had a secret. Of course, I didn’t refer to it as a secret, just something that I was very uncomfortable sharing. But I did. Just a little bit at a time. To a select handful of women who gave me the space to share, to slowly come to the start of understanding my secrets and how they affected me, and to support and encourage me to tell my story.
As I enter the revision stage of my memoir I realize that I’m beginning to come to a place of peacefulness through strength within. It’s a dance of sorts that my secrets and I are experiencing together. For some steps it seems as though the secrets are taking the lead. Slowing me down. Leaving me questioning myself and the roles I played. Other times I’m clearly in the lead.
Those are the times I’m able to read pieces of my revised memoir to a supportive group of women who are strong enough to hear my story. My secrets.
Although I held the effects of the secrets so well that I doubt anyone would have guessed I had these secrets. I know they didn’t.
Most see me as a strong and gentle woman who is also courageous. I’m not. Maybe that’s the biggest secret of them all.
Or maybe, just maybe, I’m the one who doesn’t see the secret for what it might be. That the child who didn’t feel safe, loved, worthy, or that she belonged grew up to be the woman who became all of those things and so much more.
Wouldn’t that be a wonderful secret to uncover?
This piece was written as part of a Garden of Neuro writing workshop. All women are welcome! Click the link to join us.
