I so wanted to tell the truth. My truth.
The truest truth I could find at the core of my being. The truest truth I had enough awareness to turn into words. I wanted it so bad.
But… What would the world think of me? I thought.
Oh, who am I kidding! No, I was not worried about the world, because I was quite convinced (still am) that the world wanted me to tell the truth.
In fact, it’s been screaming for quite a while:
Stop the fuck doing what you are doing with your life and tell the truth. Your truth.
Scream it until your throat hurts and your fingers are bruised from typing.
Stop censoring, hiding, suppressing, making it pretty. Just stop. You don’t have time for that.
Focus on what’s important and what’s important is to tell the truth.
Let it fly and find the ones who need it.
But sadly I didn’t care about the world. I didn’t care about my soul crying at night hoping that I would hear it.
I didn’t hear.
I closed my ears. I closed them shut with both hands and pillows and loud thoughts about my kids and our plans for the weekend.
I didn’t hear.
I didn’t care about my soul. Or those who needed me to tell my truth – so that they would wake up and tell theirs.
I didn’t care.
What did I care about? – you ask.
I cared about my neighbor. I know, confusing.
Let me explain.
The neighbor I meet at the playground. No, she is not a friend. I know nothing about her but her name and her kids’ names.
I usually have my sling on with my baby in it. I watch my toddler go down the slides. I watch my 7 y.o. as he is wrestling with his friend.
I talk to my kids in that voice that naturally comes out somehow even though I don’t think it is my voice. I sound cheerful and confident and like a mother who knows what she is doing.
I am certain my neighbor thinks I am weird.
But not THAT weird to tell the kind of truth I wanted to tell.
And that’s what I cared about.
I thought – What would she think about my truth?
She would read it and then remember me wearing my sling with a baby, talking to my kids in a cheerful voice, acting weird.
And she would think – What the heck, I didn’t expect this from her! Sure, she is kind of weird, but this – THIS I didn’t expect!
The thought that my neighbor would know the details of my relationships, my deep desires, my hopes and dreams, my pains, the way I like to be fucked, and the way I withhold love and fear intimacy (because that’s the kind of truth my soul wanted me to tell and sometimes the truth calls for details) – that thought scared the shit out of me.
The shame would cover me like a big blanket and I would scroll through my Facebook feed like a maniac looking at other people’s kids and what they eat for dinner – all to distract myself from my truth.
People who needed my truth, who would be inspired and moved and changed and maybe dared to tell theirs – I didn’t care about them.
You, my weird, like-minded souls who I’d love to connect with, the sad truth is – I didn’t care about you.
The sad truth is I mostly cared about those who didn’t give a shit about who I am and what I have to say.
I was so scared of what they would think of me. And so I kept quiet.
But then I decided.
It HAD to end.
I decided to start small.
I decided to tell my truth – all of it – where I felt safe first.
At home. Behind my walls and to those I trusted. I told my husband -This is how I feel and this is why.
I did it every day.
Some days it was easy. Some days it was hard.
I started small. I took it one step at a time.
And then slowly I dared to write my truth here.
I still have so much unfolding to do.
It’s still scary. And shame is still here.
What if my neighbor reads my letter to my husband?
But it’s becoming easier and easier every day.
I am determined.
To keep going.
Because this is the only way to truly live my one wild and beautiful. Life.
And when you, my dear neighbor, meet me at the playground, I’ll smile and hope that you didn’t read any of this or if you did, maybe it stirred something in your soul that needed some stirring and maybe we are much more alike than I thought we could be and maybe at the very least you won’t openly laugh at the crazy difference between what I look like at that playground, with my sling, my crazy kids, my cheerful voice, and the words I type here.
Because both of those are me.
Just me, trying hard to be myself.