I will never not keep secrets.
Is that an odd sentiment? Or is it simply odd that I’m admitting to this fact? Either way, it’s true. I’ve allowed myself to become more vulnerable as I’ve gotten older, the result of a conscious decision— but there’s a line I won’t cross. I can’t point it out to you on a map, but I feel it when I come too close, and then automatically go into shutdown mode.
I used to make a point of appearing to share much of myself with others, while actually keeping most of me under lock and key. I spent years perfecting the illusion of openness. I’m no longer invested in doing so. Too many masks to juggle. So rather than play at being open, I’ve learned to set boundaries. Some find this easy and do it without much thought. But it’s taken me most of my life to 1) learn to acknowledge my needs, and 2) get them met — a process that necessitated boundary setting.
There are a handful of people who, together, know 90%(-ish) of me. Maybe 93%. The idea of sharing the most raw, tender parts of myself with more than a handful of people is exhausting. For the most part, I’ve given up explaining myself to people outside of my tiny circle. Not only because it’s exhausting, but because I no longer care — I don’t need their approval or validation. If, at the end of the day, I can put my thoughts down on paper and either understand what I’m dealing with, or tolerate the ambiguity of not yet knowing/ fully understanding — well, then I’m good. That’s good enough for me.
So while I do value vulnerability, it’s certainly not my life’s work. I’d rather spend my time living unapologetically — and for me that means keeping my secrets.