Secrets

Like most people who have chosen to embrace the poly life style, I believe in open, truthful and honest communication. However, many of us carry around a closet full of secrets.

So should we keep the door to this place closed or open up this proverbial Pandora’s box of dark and hidden secrets?

Secrets are often toxic to relationships and can be the killer blow when the going gets tough. It’s at this point we need to ask ourselves a very important and soul search question “Does my partner or partners  need to know this secret?”

That’s always going to be a really tough call. Personally I try to be a bit of an open book, but I have in the past hidden away things about myself that I was either not proud of or thought too personal to really see the light of day. I have since learned that sometimes sharing these things with the people I care about and profess to love has actually improved my relationships.

The following blog post explores this topic further, have a read and be your own judge.

“Do secrets tear relationships apart? None of us are perfect; we all have a closet full of skeletons that we’ve gathered over the course of our life. So at what point do secrets become toxic to a relationship…”

Source: Secrets

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One thought on “Secrets

  1. It’s my near-anonymity here which today I particularly value. I had a “secret” which a few of my closest friends knew about in the 1960s and 1970s, but “something happened” in Western culture after that that made me shut my mouth until only about two years ago.
    In 1961 I was 13 and I met a girl. Normally shy around girls, I opened up to her and within a very short time we were a couple. Her mother was a drunk who worked 12 hours a day at a local diner and her father had gotten a divorce-with-alimony when my girl was seven. She didn’t see much of Dad. A week after we fell in love, she died in a car crash. Her mother had taken her to a movie and had blacked out behind the wheel, hitting a bridge abutment at 50 mph. I couldn’t even go to the funeral. I turned into a block of wood emotionally for two years, inside I was cold as ice.

    In 1963 I met three boys in succession, each younger than me. They were my first gay boyfriends, and the last for many years after. At that time, it was worth my life if my “secret” got out. Under heavy paranoia, I eventually drifted into my only marriage, a 16+ year mistake if ever there was one. My wife knew nothing of my past – still doesn’t, in fact. At some time in the early 1980s I told a few friends whom I trusted. All of them were upset. I was told that I was a child molester and should be behind bars. Explaining that I was a kid at the time myself fell on deaf ears. I was a filthy pervert and, so ended some false friendships.

    In 1998, my health insurance allowed me the luxury of some therapy. Here in the US, health care still sucks; when people ask me why I think Universal Healthcare is the way to go, I simply say, “Stephen Hawking.” I told my therapist about my past. He sat taking notes until I suddenly broke down and cried. When I had calmed down enough, he asked me if I could explain. “I loved them,” is all that I could say. I felt a particular hurt over Victor/Vicky, whose father was an ex-Marine. He found his son’s secret stash of girl’s clothes, beat him senseless and had him institutionalized. My therapist was good; he held his face and then blew his nose. “I have had so many patients over the years who’ve told me tragic stories like yours. To me, the worst ones involve incest, but your life story is up there.” I asked him how many people told him stuff like I did and he shrugged, saying “Dozens, maybe a couple of hundred.” At the mention of incest, I felt confident enough to tell him about the time that my mother tried to seduce me when I was sixteen. He knew his shit. He put a bucket by my chair while I was talking. After I got the story out, I vomited. He was the only real therapist I ever had.

    Because I’ve stopped living in fear, I can talk about these parts of my past, they’re no longer dirty laundry, dark secrets. Sara and Ceannt know, as do my (adult) children. But anyone stupid enough to call me a pedophile today will get a swift punch in the mouth.

    Liked by 1 person

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