“You’re the kind of friend people feel they can confide in and trust in a crisis.”
She was right, this friend of mine. My mind is a vault filled with the deepest, darkest secrets and confessions from my closest, nearest, and dearest… from the trite and embarrassing stuff of everyday life to the sordid details that daytime soap operas are made of. And I never really had a problem with any it until some of those confessions started to keep me awake at night, filling my body with anxiety and fear.
I knew too much and couldn’t handle it any more. This is usually the part of the movie where the heroine is offed because the threat is there.
She might squeak.
I knew intimate details that could destroy relationships and threaten safety. I didn’t feel so good, now that my conscience burned. I was itching in my own skin and needed to crawl out of my body–just for a moment–to breathe without the confines of my own skin. My imagination started running wild in the late hours of the evening. I imagined every worst-case scenario you could think of and I stood in the middle of it all, just as guilty.
I started to tear. Tiny fractures that became bigger cracks over time. Do I squeak? Continue as the secret keeper? Can I live with myself if something were to happen to people that I know and love, and I don’t act fast enough?
It wasn’t a way to live or be, so I set some of those secrets free. And I was forced to turn my back on a friend I have had throughout the course of my adult life.
Because a friend wouldn’t set your soul on fire and leave you to deal with her ashes.
What if the secrets you keep have the power to kill you on the inside? What do you do?