You Are My Secrets On The Front Page Every Week

I can’t keep a secret to save my life. More accurately, I can’t keep my own secrets. People say that being an open book is a good thing, but I’m not so sure. My spine is so creased that I can’t even stay closed. My front cover was torn off years ago.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a crush that just about everyone in a 5 mile radius didn’t know about. I frequently tell people the story of my most embarrassing moment before I even tell them my name. I can’t keep anything secret, I can’t ever be mysterious.

It’s a fundamental aspect of my personality. I prefer everything out in the open: secrets, wounds, bones. It goes well beyond the point where honesty turns from admirable to overbearing and weird. I’ve ripped my seams open so many times that they’re too frayed to stitch back together.

One time when I was snorkeling I gashed the bottom of my foot open on a sharp piece of coral. They patched me up on the boat, and said I was okay to go back in. Now that I think back on it, I’m not sure the company was licensed in first aid or snorkel instruction. I was nervous to go back in the ocean, scared the salt water would sting in my already-painful cut, but it didn’t hurt at all. Because I had cut it underwater, the water had rushed in before the blood could even rush out. I’d already felt the sting I was dreading, I just hadn’t been able to tell it apart from the initial pain of the cut.

That’s sort of the way I treat emotional pain too. No one can ever hurt me as much as I can hurt myself. I’m forever pouring salt in my wounds before anyone else gets the chance to do it. When your wounds are never covered, they never putrefy, but they never fully heal either. They scar.

It has its ups and downs. I know that I’m funny because there’s nothing I’m not willing to talk about, nothing I won’t make fun of myself for. I’m not scared of making myself look bad because I already know I do. On the other hand, it scares people. I come off as a bit reckless, slightly unhinged. Unfiltered, unrefined, unstable. Blunt is ┬áreally just the polite word for rude and bitchy. Sometimes I scare away potential friends or guys I like because I just can’t keep anything to myself.

I try and convince myself that I wouldn’t want to spend time with the sort of people who are put off by my constant oversharing anyway, but I never really believe it. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could be a bit mysterious? Wouldn’t it be great if I had even the slightest knack for subtlety?

Maybe I should just accept that I’ll never be like that. It’s just not who I am. No matter how many New Years resolutions I make, how many times I bite my tongue or let someone else bite it for me, I’ll never be a mystery. I’ll always be an open book. I can only hope people like what they read.

Title from Like A Friend by Pulp

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