We all have them. They're the hidden epoxy that holds together any relationship. Behind all the pride and the posturing and the appearances, the truth slinks like a jungle cat in the reeds. Poetic, no? There's just one issue: I don't want to be responsible for the information that I have. Somewhere along the path of my life, I've been the confidant of far too many people. I've done my job well; kept my mouth shut. There are widely known whispers among my immediate family that I still haven't divulged to other members solely due to the pact of secrecy that was taken.
In my family, there has always been an attempt to soften the blow to any tidbit of dark history. We could be having a harmless discussion about how someone's day has gone and then, "Oh, by the way... I've discovered Dad's secret sex drawer. Oh, by the way... I'm pregnant (that one I received verbatim via text message). Oh, by the way, these are the evil events that lead to your uncle's estrangement." Every year that passes, more familial secrets are passed on as some twisted rite of passage. I was raised with a single philosophy concerning the outlook I should have toward my family: in the end, we're all we've got in this world. A family sticks through the difficult times and strives to help each other out of any situation. Good times and bad. Till death do us part.
Sometimes it can be a bit overwhelming. I have developed a relationship with my mother over the past two and a half years spent as her chauffer. I've heard her vent about work, and my father, and our financial standing, and pretty much anything else she could think about. I'm a good listener. This is one trait that is shared amongst my gene pool. It's frightening when I attempt to catalog the knowledge I've gained just by shutting my mouth the fuck up and opening my ear holes. In some ways, I understand the therapeutic benefits of full disclosure, but at what cost? I'm not claiming some self-righteous goodness or personal purity, but some things you would just rather not hear.
Instead, I've heard everything. I shake a fist at my memories. I recently saw a posting on Facebook discussing biblical readings and their pertaining toward the quest for knowledge. And (paraphrasing) how the attainment of said knowledge only brings greater suffering. Generally, I assume we can all agree on that statement. They say ignorance is bliss. Agreed. But at the same time, how are you expected to experience life and all it has to offer if you don't understand the intricacies of both the light and dark side of morality? Let this be my confession. I've learned far too much.
I'm an addict. Have been for many years. Alcohol, cigarettes, sex, cocaine, just to name a few of what I'd consider to be my most destructive vices. The latter of which I no longer partake in, but I had some great times. I've almost ruined friendships following the signs given to me by blood rushing to my loins. Yes, loins. I've cheated on girlfriends. At a bank event at Rockefeller center, I got sauced enough to make out with some middle-aged, mother-of-a-couple, who happened to be a friend of my Mom. I once slept with three women in a day, and although some childish man-boy alter of my ego is high-fiving himself with those memories, I feel disgusted by some of my actions. I've both taken advantage of and been taken advantage of. I've stared at a face in the mirror, studying its bloodshot, rimmed eyes and bags in such a state of numbness that it was only when I moved did I recognize myself. Yes, that fucked up. Name it, I've probably peed on it whilst blacked out. For a while, the whirling miasma of my brain activity kept me from sleep. I've uttered the phrase "I hate people" and genuinely meant it (and recently, as well). I've dealt with depression and insomnia, fantasized about murder. About quiet rooftops and high-powered rifles. I've got the Army ROTC to thank for that marksmanship training. What would any of that solve? I may be living my life as a better person day by day, but I've wronged far too many people with my secrets than I'd care to count. If I believed in Heaven and Hell, or God, I'd be certain of my eternal resting place. I'm very much a work in progress. Case and point: my current girlfriend, my loving and supportive girlfriend of over two years is the older sister to one of the youngest loves of my life. I came clean and told a girl just how I felt about her, opened myself up to all the hurt and pain that was about to come crashing down. She never did respond to me. I smoked myself into a mentally retarded stupor devoid of all moral decisions. I thought she had snubbed me. I had heard she was sleeping with an ex-boyfriend of hers. That secret made my blood simmer. I wasn't privy to the fact that she may have felt the same way about me. That she may have loved me as well. I escaped to Tennessee with my friends and burnt all the stress out of my form during a festival of musical fantasies. The THC-induced stupor changed my outlook on life; I became a soldier of Love. A shining beacon of life. I was having sex with her sister no less than 90 days after having uttered the words "I love you". That's evil, but it's lead to something beautiful. There's always a silver lining, I guess, but that doesn't make me feel any better for the wrongs I have committed. Taylor, I am sorry.
And there's no way I could ever apologize for it now, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
To all that have been wronged by my secrets, I am truly sorry. If it's any consolation, it is memories of my horrible actions that continue to haunt me, in this, one of the happiest chapters of my short life to date. Those secret memories are the reason why I'm awake at five in the morning, pouring my thoughts out in text. To then post them on the internet. For the world to see. That's frightening.
All I'm trying to say is we need a little disclosure in this world. Secrets are tearing my insides apart. Should I tell you that I've never stopped loving any of my past girlfriends? That I had my first kiss on January twenty something of my fifteenth year of existence, and then three short months later was no longer a virgin? I feel like a bastard. I may claim utter acceptance of myself, and currently that may be true, but in the past I really fucking hated the person I was becoming. There's no room for trust from others when you can't trust yourself.
No comments:
Post a Comment