Secrets.

Every Monday I read the "Sunday Secrets." For some I laugh, for some I cry, and for some I just hope that my moment of attention contributes to that person's peace. For most of my life, I would have said I didn't have any secrets, that I'm open with my life and my history because to carry all of that around would be too heavy to bear. Oh, so untrue.

The past three or four months have been an exercise in healing, a journey of pain, a project of stripping away the layers of rot and dirt and denial to expose the hope underneath. Each exposed truth has been a epiphany of acceptance and forgiveness, which has led to a freedom I never knew I could feel, a liberty I never knew I had. I finally accept and forgive ME.

And maybe it's time to tell my secrets. Let's do this.

My biological father didn't abandon us and neither did his parents. My mother wouldn't allow him to have contact with us. She didn't give us birthday cards and Christmas presents that were sent, we weren't allowed to answer the phone or the door. Even though I knew this as a child, I'd forgotten it, almost as if my brain convinced me that my mother could never do such a thing.

I've ruined every relationship I've ever had because I continue to use survival skills I no longer need. And I always blamed the other person.

Sex with love is so difficult and frightening for me. Sex with a stranger is easy.

I'm afraid of everything that's out of my control. Which is EVERYTHING.

My adoptive father beat the shit out of me, terrorized me, starved me, and controlled me because he was crazy, not because I was bad. But it didn't take long to convince me that I was bad. And still am.

(Despite all of that, I am often struck by gratitude for my father's comprehensive infusion of fear. I've felt that the deep-running paranoia that runs my life actually makes me BETTER at what I do. Realization that this is probably one of the sickest things I've ever heard was one layer of rot all by itself.)

I learned to be honest because lying was so easy. I did it a LOT back in the day. And the temptation is always there. So if I'm "hardcore" about extreme honesty, it's because I know the difference.

I only have one regret in my entire life, despite the fact that I've done some pretty horrible things. I'm not sorry for any of them, I'm only sorry that I'm not.

I've aborted more babies than I've delivered. And it was the right thing to do every time.

I spent several years secretly wishing MSU would die because the several insurance policies I keep on him were worth more than he was to me.

My children terrify me. And I've been a really shitty mother because of it.

I love my mother. But I hate her more. I'm an over-controlling and over-protective mother because she wouldn't be consistent or protective. Maybe she couldn't be. But I don't care. I hate her for failing to do what was necessary to keep us safe.

I'm afraid I will kill my adoptive father if I ever see him again. And sometimes I really hope I run into him.

I hoarded food until well into my 20s.

I made my marriage the toxic thing it became. I did it. No one else. Everyone else had no choice but to just react.

In 1st grade, the kid no one liked always had really good desserts in her lunch. I told her I would be her friend as long as she gave me her dessert every day.

I quit high school because I wanted to party, fuck, and use drugs. Sure, it was boring. Sure, my mom kicked me out when I was 15. But the real reason I quit was because I had "better" things to do.

Of course, there are more. But ost of those are what I like to think of as "standard" secrets: stealing as a little kid, getting my sister in trouble on purpose, sneaking out of the house, doing stupid things and not getting caught.

I face me. I see me. I forgive me. I move on.