That Thing

You know that thing you did? That thing you never told anyone about? Do you think you can really keep it a secret forever? Do you really think you'll be able, after a bottle and a half of wine on a dark snowy night with only crackers available to soak up the alcohol, to refrain from spilling your guts to your best friend? Who is sitting there telling you all about her: a) divorce from an abusive husband; b) affair with the condominium handyman; or c) fling with her son's best friend. Do you think you'll be able to keep the beans in the container? Do you think you'll be able to keep the cat in the bag? Really? And for how long?

Or that other secret. The one no one knows. Not even the last three people you dated. Dated seriously. The only people you probably ever would have told. Can you keep it in for much longer? Can you afford not to be honest about it with the next guy? Or girl? Because, really, in the end, aren't they going to figure it out?

The last time I told someone a really big, life-changing truth about myself, he thought I was going to tell him I was gay. Which, in the long run, may have been easier. But, fortunately (or unfortunately, considering who I was telling), lesbianism was not the case.

I try to be a truth-teller in most areas of my life. And when I don't tell the truth, I pretty much just keep my trap shut. And I'm a compartmentalizer, which means that I end up keeping quiet about a lot of my life. I'm like George Costanza--I can't always handle it when my worlds collide. Of course, it sometimes makes it hard to remember who I've 'fessed up to and who I've keep in the dark about certain aspects of my life. But I rarely, rarely flat out lie. I can think of only one big one I've told in the past several months, and the subject was so far outside of the person's business that I don't feel particularly bad about the lie.

But it gets difficult, you know. I feel, sometimes, like I'm walking around with a headful of secrets that I'm not able to tell. That I'm ashamed of things I've done and seen and said. That maybe it would be easier if I just spilled my guts about everything in my life. That, if I were more open about things, my life would be better.

Then I get back in my head and think about how people would look at me differently if they knew what I was really like, down deep in the dark recesses of my heart and soul. If they knew what I think about, late at night, looking out the window of my room. And I just keep my mouth shut. Because I don't know how to live any other way.

Everyone has those things. Those things that no one knows about. Not even their husbands or wives or children or parents. That they pick their nose in the car when they're alone and wipe their fingers on the floor mat. That they steal medicine from bottles in other people's bathrooms. That they have collections of dirty pictures hidden in the garage in the roasting pan that their mother-in-law gave them as a wedding present, 'cause you know that's never getting used. That they've met someone on the internet and are thinking about meeting them. That they got someone pregnant and she had the baby without telling them and they just found out. That she didn't have the baby and they just found out. That they can't ever have a baby. That they're diseased. That they're thinking about killing themselves. That they're broke. That they are seriously considering having an affair. That they are in love. Or that they aren't.

Sometimes the secrets just sneak up on you without you even knowing it, and all of a sudden, you're keeping them. Other times, they smash into you, like waves on a rock, and you end up hefting them around with you for the rest of your life.

They are starting to get heavy.