Pretty Little Secrets
There’s something about me that makes people think I’ll keep all their secrets — as if it’s not hard, as if it’s no big deal, as if it won’t eat at me.
The last time I told a huge lie1 was last year — I said I was a college student to get into the butterfly festival with the student’s discount — and I still feel so disgusting for it. Like, horrible. Beyond explanation.
And I’ve kept it a secret, until now.
It was a decision I made that I can no longer change or fix or react to, really, aside from still feeling crappy.
However, others make decisions for me and then ask me — or just tell me — to keep it a secret — to not tell anyone, to just act normal, to be okay.
But secrets eat me up. My entire childhood is built on many, many secrets that ate away at me — and still do — for years.
People just assume I’m fine with keeping them.
Unsolicited secrets are just as horrendous as unsolicited advice, seriously.
And, if it’s something that is technically illegal, I’d rather you not do it or at least have the decency to just not tell me about it.
I have my own secrets, my own big ones, and knowing others’ secrets just makes me have to lie. Do people not understand what situation it puts me in?
Any more secrets, and I’m going to fucking explode. Honestly.
- ‘Huge’, because I tell white lies all the time — “I’m fine”, “Yes, I slept okay”, etc. ↩