I hate keeping secrets. Even lies by omission hurt.
I spent a portion of my youth on secrets. On lies. It almost killed me. It came close. At the end, all I had was money, scars, and grey hair. The money is gone. The scars are mostly faded. The grey hair stayed. And a deep abiding pain that accompanies lies.
I spent years clawing out of various closets. Sexuality, society, BDSM. And at the end of it, I found peace.
But still people want me to hide. To be discreet. To say it’s no one’s business but ours.
But let me tell you. It may be no one’s business but ours, but it’s on them to turn their heads. Hiding is lying. Discretion is fine, but it should not stop a kiss or a hug or holding hands. If it does then that’s fear.
Just because I can hide or lie; Because I practiced for years, doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I loathe it.
I understand why hiding may be necessary. If life or liberty is on the line. But if not? It’s not worth the cost.
And sometimes, even life and liberty are not enough. We should be who we are. Shout it from the rooftops. And to those that would silence us, let them reap the consequences. Let them fear.
I said I didn’t like lying. I didn’t say I’d forgotten my past.