Tuesday, January 15, 2013


There is no one person left on this earth that knows everything about me.

I recently found myself spilling my guts with a member of my extended family. She was always privy to the heavily filtered, often straight-up propaganda, version of of what the rest of the family thought of me so she never had a chance to really get to know me. We've been working on that.

I don't know what surprised me more, the fact that I shared so much with her or the fact that, while horrified, she didn't immediately begin placing blame and judgment.

There are pieces of my past that most people know very little about. Most people would rather not know.

The Husband would prefer not to know if I masturbate or not. I suppose it's safe to assume that he doesn't want to know about the various times in my life I've been violated either.

The First One knew all of that and then some. The difference is that we were friends first. We were always friends first.

There are things you won't think twice about telling your best friend, but you may hesitate and perhaps not ever tell your mom, your child, your spouse. Some people simply can't handle receiving certain bits of information. There is some information you simply don't want to share with certain people.

Is it truly necessary?

There's a certain comfort in knowing that there is someone out there who knows everything about you -good, bad and ugly - and still loves you anyway. It validates your sense of self-worth in a way very little else can.

But is there such a thing as too much information? Too much transparency?

After all, ignorance certainly can be bliss.

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