I don’t like secrets.
Most times in my life when I was told not to tell, it was because of something bad. I carry more secrets than anyone should have to bear. Most of them are things I could never tell anyone but God. One of them I can’t even whisper to God because it terrifies me. If I ever spoke it aloud it would shatter the lives of people I love. And it’s nothing I’ve done, which makes it a millstone I shouldn’t even have to carry. Some of the deadweight comes only from what I suspect, not what I know for certain. That makes it more difficult to carry because I don’t KNOW, and I cannot ask.
I know secrets that could put a person in prison, but at the cost of devastating eight precious lives. The vindictive side of me wants to spill those proverbial skeletons in my closet just to see my abuser punished; the mother bear side of me refuses to bring to light all that has been hidden for the sake of my children. Every day an epic battle rages within me: tell or remain silent. Each day Mother Bear limps away the Victor. But for how much longer?