Everyone has secrets. Some of them: you can’t wait to share with someone. Some of them: you would rather give a blumpkin than admit them to someone. That’s OK. That’s life. You make mistakes, but you move on. But when you see those happy couples who say, “Oh, we’re so close; we share everything.” Maybe that works for them. But that isn’t a steadfast rule.
I used to think that intimacy meant not keeping secrets. I thought that if you truly wanted to be as close to someone as you could, you should tell them everything. But I’m not sure that’s true. Because not every secret will bring you closer together. There are harmless secrets like this: “Once when I was cooking dinner for my family, I drooled into the pan. My mom told me not to tell any of my other family members. So I didn’t. They ate the meal. They thought it was delicious. No one knew that I drooled.”
But there are secrets that are less lighthearted and way less funny. Maybe, if you’re alive, you have royally f*cked up once or twice. Hopefully you learned something. Maybe you regret it big time. You don’t need to tell that secret to anyone. Anyone. Not your family, not your cat, not your pillow, not God, not a stranger, not your significant other, not your other cat, NO ONE. No one deserves to know your secrets. No one is entitled to know your secrets. Because if your Terrible Awful is something that is TOTALLY out of character, if it’s something you would never do again, if it’s something you can’t really believe you did in the first place, if it’s something that you told yourself, ‘If I tell no one then maybe the thing never happened,’ then you don’t have to tell anyone. And maybe you shouldn’t. The only exception I can make is a therapist. Because if you’re guilting yourself to death over something and you need professional help, then by all means be honest with your therapist. Because they’re getting paid mucho (Canadian) dollars not to judge you. And who knows, maybe your therapist has some naughty doorknob fetish that she’s never told anyone. But BACK TO THE POINT, JAMES! Maybe your Terrible Awful makes you sound like someone you don’t want to be; it portrays an image that doesn’t currently match the one you are striving to embody; it doesn’t represent the best you. You don’t need to tell anyone. I’m not saying you shouldn’t. But you should never feel like you have to, like it’s required of you.
You have a right to your privacy. No matter your status: dead, alive, single, taken, possessed, repossessed, zombified, mortified, ashamed, proud, ambivalent, drunk. It’s your choice.
Here’s an example: your number. You know, your NUMBER. Wink wink. Like. How many people you’ve stuck it to. In the butt or other orifice. Maybe your number is high. Hypothetically, if you tell someone that you’ve had sex with 10 people in 8 years, they might think you’re skanky because their PeopleFucked to YearsPassed ratio is smaller than yours. But they don’t know your circumstances. Perhaps once was a drunken mistake. Perhaps one was a friend with benefits. Perhaps you have been with so many people because you’re not willing to settle.
Maybe you’re me. I’ve dated a lot of people. A lot. And I’ve had sex with some of them. And maybe some people think my number is high. But I think that’s a judgement. I mean, high compared to what? Yes, I’ve had more sex compared to zero. But that doesn’t mean anything. Me? I’m just looking for the right guy. And sometimes I’m with the wrong guy for too long, and I figure it out too late. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe I stayed in relationships too long. Maybe I jumped out of them too fast. But the bottom line is I’m not settling. So why do I have a “high” number (if you’re a virgin)? Because I’m looking for the One. If I had found the One, my number would stop climbing. Hm. So here are my options: have a low number by making it work with just anyone, regardless of my happiness, regardless of our compatibility. OR. Have a “high” number by looking for someone who will treat me right, make me laugh and have a good heart.
Listen, bitches, I’d rather be a f*cking slut than die miserable.
“I’ve asked about you, and they’ve told me things. But my mind didn’t change; I still feel the same. What’s a life with no fun? Please don’t be ashamed. I’ve had mine, you’ve had yours, we both know. We know.”
~”Take Care” by Drake feat. Rihanna