Naughty Truth Treasures

My computer is about to die.  I have 21 minutes to write something inspiring and brilliant, something that makes me worthwhile, that helps me feel like a good girl, something that might inspire you to break free of imaginary prisons. 

I have 20 minutes to write something true.

It's a little embarrassing to talk to you this way.  If you were here, I could register your response.  I could tell you a story with my body, waving arms around and speaking in a witch voice or with a German accent.  I could listen.  I could look into your eyes and hold your hand and we might not even speak.  That would be okay.  I like just being with you. 

But now I'm letting you in - the faceless you, the audience, the five people (or more?) who may be indulging in this distraction - I'm letting you in on secrets and thoughts.  What are you supposed to be doing?  Surely reading this is not on your to-do list.  Unless it's you Mom.  And I know as much as you would like to, as often as you add it to your list, you don't read it.  That's okay.  Knowing that allows me to share secrets with the others, like this one: you know how I promised to not have sex until I was 16?  Well this one time when I was 15 and 3/4 I mounted my boyfriend (you know who he was) and I let it slide in part way and oh my god it felt so good so I let it go in a little deeper and it was like I had these lights on the inside of my vagina that had never been turned on before and as he entered my body a rainbow exploded inside me.  It lasted three seconds, so it didn't really count.  But it counted enough to keep it a secret.

Nine minutes left.

Secrets can be like that - naughty truth treasures kept harmlessly in furtive pockets. 

Sometimes, they aren't like that though.  Sometimes secrets (when we don't realize we're keeping them) are ruthless. 

Why do I do I turn away from truth?  Because I have practiced since I was a little girl, swallowing it, doing the opposite, telling my parents, teachers, friends, the opposite of what is real.  No I don't masturbate.  No, I didn't break it.  Yes I like chicken, see I ate it all, I'm a good girl.  No, I didn't just smell my own pee.  I didn't pick my nose and eat it.  I wasn't curious about what it would be like to kill that animal, to think about suicide, to have a sex dream with my brother, to want to scream in the movies, to punch Mrs. White - the one who keeps telling me magic is not real - right in the face. 

Many people I know have been kidnapped by Truth.  It pulls up in a van with no windows and breaks into homes, takes away the precious, comfortable, expensive things.  It tears us apart (like an unstoppable asteroid) so nothing is left but a terrible mess and some bruises. 

The worst part though is the shame.  It's knowing all along that truth was there, whispering itself.  It's the difference between the kind of secret I've kept from one person and the kind that I've kept from myself. 

3 minutes.

The truth is this:  we know what is best for us.  Until we (yes that's you Katrina) find the courage to live what is real, get honest about our secrets and stop caring what our mothers (and everyone we imagine won't love us unless...) think, we will be subconsciously waiting for the inevitable visit, holding breath until our realities are trashed and violently reordered.

Hold my hand, wherever you are.  Tell me what it is that inspires rainbow explosions inside your body and follow that.  We can help each other.  We don't have to prove anything.  We don't even have to talk. 

0 minutes.

I like just being with you, whoever you really are.