Talk to me.
Tell me what’s bothering you. The secret you’ve kept hidden so long, the unspeakable event you folded up neatly and pushed to the back of the bottom drawer.
It surfaces now, doesn’t it? Tears spilling over and quickly brushed aside. Jaw is clenched and breath is held until the wave subsides and control is pulled like curtains across your soul.
I’m fine. Really. A smile and a shake of the head and you’re the carefree woman once again.
But you’re not fine. Not really.
Shame lowers your glance and you sigh. And you wonder how you could tell me. How do you even begin to verbalize the heartbreak, the horror that mars the pages of your past. Pages you’ve glued shut for fear someone might stumble across them.
Read them to me now. Read the words written on those pages.
Because in the telling comes release. In the speaking comes healing.
Allow the words to form. Push them from your mouth and let your chest heave in a burst of pain. Go ahead, cry. I’m here. I’m listening to you.
I’m looking at you.
And I see me. I’m a woman with glued shut pages too. I know how it feels to spit the words out, to describe an event so loathsome it makes my skin crawl. To feel the shame of a secret hidden for so long. I was a victim too, before I was old enough to know the meaning of the word.
but in the telling comes release. comes healing.
Let me carry this with you. We’ll sit here together sharing the pain, sharing the Kleenex until the load lightens and the shame dissipates. And we’ll look at red noses and melted mascara and smile. A real smile.