I have a secret. It's the kind of secret that makes for heart-wrenching made-for-TV-Lifetime-Original movies based on that book you read last month with the drama and the tears and the betrayal and the moments that make you and the relationships with the ones you love stronger. It's the kind of shit writers can only dream of making up. It's a best-selling novel or a tell-all memoir.
It's my life.
But because of current circumstances, I cannot share my story as fact. I can't tell you why I'm hiding behind crap I wrote three weeks ago and auto-posting so I can try and keep my head above waters rising so high and so fast that they threaten to drown me and those that matter most. I can't tell you why I feel so betrayed. And I can't tell you why burying my father two years ago now has lost the top-spot on Pauline's Shittiest Life Moments list.
I beat around bushes. I speak in code. The truth is painful, but it isn't the only reason I'm being so purposely cryptic. Truth, instead of setting me free, could very well be what holds me hostage.
If based on reality, my own words can hurt me. But fiction is a different story, altogether. If I hide kernels of the truth in a world I have dreamt up inside of my head, scattered throughout a novel like a handful of birdseed on the lawn, the writer in me can satisfy the desire to share words with the world in the hopes that Someone Else can relate while the mother, wife, daughter, sister, and niece in me can simply disappear.