I
learned years ago that what is the most personal is also the most universal. By
disclosing to another human being our deepest secrets, we tell the story of
humankind, sing the song of the ancients, and create the poetry of the soul. In
baring the darkness within us, we find light, and companionship.
Why
is it, then, that there is such a powerful pull to lock our secrets in some
cold inner vault and throw away the key? How is it that some things we most
need to share end up in solitary confinement, living and dying within our
consciousness alone?
But
the practice of disclosing your self (strengths and weaknesses, talents and
foibles, achievements and mortifications) is what prepares you to go deeper
than usual with the one you love, the partner in whom you seek a heart-to-heart
reciprocity. You learn that together you can transcend life’s painful
episodes—past and present; those humiliating events that might have conquered
you but for your redemptive sharing.
Ride Into Hell
My
most humiliating experience began during a winter day of after-school
sledding. Cheeks
flushed against the cold and trembling with excitement, I stand in line with
three other boys who wait their turn to dive through the air, land on sleds,
and race to the bottom of the snow-packed hill. My turn comes up and I giggle
uncontrollably when body and sled unite for another wild ride.
I
gather myself at hill’s bottom in preparation for the trek back up, when I see
five boys forming a curtain of bodies around me. Jimmy, a sixth-grade classmate,
emerges from the circle, hands gyrating in boxer fashion. Is he playing some
kind of joke?
Just
then a fist whips out and connects solidly with my eye. Three blows follow hard
after. I dizzily try to find him in my vision, but he is dancing around. The
street itself looks tilted, like I’m in an elevator in an earthquake. More
hammer blows sting my cheeks, nose, and chin.
The
next half dozen blows I neither see nor hear, and wouldn’t even know about had
not bystanders later told me. Mercifully, blackness swallows me like a snake
swallowing a fish.
When
I come to, the world looks red. Two neighborhood friends have heaved shoulders
under each of my arms and are dragging me home. My body feels foreign and out
of joint. It’s not the physical pain, primarily, that feels so alien, but the
humiliation of having not defended myself, the horror of having no answer to
Jimmy’s evil assault.
A
Real and Present Liberation
Here
is what I’m driving at: it is precisely through retelling and reliving our stories
that our isolation, and the evil embedded in our memories, is overcome. Every
transparent disclosure cleanses and dresses old wounds until such time as we
are substantially healed. Healing requires transcending fear and shame, and
recovering our lost dignities.
Are
you wondering if perhaps I cut off the Jimmy story prematurely?
Yes,
you’re right. So if you are prepared to listen, I will tell you about Delta.
That
night Mom uses scissors to snip off my undershirt, to avoid pulling it over the
cuts on my face. Dad retires to his den, grumbling about having a son who can’t
hold his own in a fight.
I
crawl into bed, my mind playing mental movies of flashing lights, falling
bodies, derisive sniggers, and banging blows. I curl into a ball, cringing. A
consoling image vies with the ghostly collage until it comes into focus. It is
my girlfriend Delta’s face.
Delta
is my fledgling attempt at having a girlfriend, my fifth and sixth grade flame.
We talk at night on the phone and sometimes hold hands during recess. She has a
ponytail, blue eyes, and a smile that tickles my insides.
Though
I don’t want to go to school tomorrow wearing my raccoon black eyes and purple
bruises, I will go. Delta will help me through this terrible pain. She will
know that I am actually quite courageous; it’s just that nobody ever taught me
how to fistfight. I drift into a restless sleep, grasping the image of her warm
hug.
The next morning at school I arrive
late. The whole class, even the teacher, leer at my puffed-out face. I scrunch
down in my seat low enough to become invisible. An eternity later the buzzer sounds.
Everyone tears out of the room for the playground. I stay behind waiting for
Delta to come running down the hallway to find me.
After five minutes, I peep out and the
hall is empty. Another five minutes and the buzzer sounds. The first boy into
the room, Terry, runs up to me breathless, and blurts, “Delta thinks you’re a
coward. She’s broken up with you. She doesn’t want you to call her anymore.”
I
learned enough at that moment to write a small book. The topic? A dozen reasons
for never loving someone because it only leads to heartbreak. Not that I was
intellectually aware of what I learned. This was a different kind of learning:
the way a dog learns about cars by being run over. I unconsciously decided that
genuine intimacy isn’t worth the pain; that relating superficially is the
safest way to proceed.
But
let me say what you know from your own life experience. While there are plenty of heartbreaks inherent in
living and loving, they are most effectively overcome by baring the
heart and cleansing the soul, by disclosing your pain to a trusted person whose
gracious understanding brings you back to social solidarity.
Over
the years I’ve risked sharing my inner life many times, and have many times
received healing and encouragement. If this weren’t true, I’d be writing a post
called, “How to Avoid Pain in One Easy Lesson: Clam Up.” I want to support you
in your search for inner healing. I want to say:
“Whatever pain you’ve secretly
endured,
go ahead and share it, so that you can keep
finding the courage to
love again.”
