My whole life, I have been taught–whether directly or indirectly–that honesty works best on a “need to know” basis: as a teenager, life would have been easier if I’d only told my parents what they needed to know about where I was going, who I was with, and what I was doing. During my college years, this policy might have worked in my favor when returning home to celebrate the holidays with extended family: my socially liberal politics had no business at the dinner table with my conservative-in-every-way uncles. I finally adopted the idea of telling people only the truth they were ready to hear when a woman I was dating sent flowers to my parents’ home, where I was recovering from surgery: unable to explain that I was dating a woman while “taking a break” from dating my college boyfriend, I settled for telling them I had a new friend who was a lesbian who might have feelings for me beyond friendship. It was a lie that would haunt me for the next 20 years.
One problem with partial honesty is that it becomes difficult to remember who I’ve told what. Did my best friend from elementary school, who didn’t know my new friends from college and who hadn’t read my feminist diatribes and manifestos, know that I was questioning my identity? When my sister called from college with a pregnancy scare, did I divulge the abortion I’d had when I was 20? When I got a tattoo in my 30s, I told one cousin but not her sister; my grandmother would never know, but my godmother would. My mother-in-law would see it before my own mother was forced to face it. The magnitude of my omissions would eventually become greater than their sum, until the part of myself I was showing to people was miniscule compared to who I really was.
The real problem with selective honesty is that it made it difficult for me to remember who I was trying to be for different people. I wanted to make people happy; I wanted to avoid conflict; I would do anything to avoid difficult conversations. I thought I was doing everyone a favor by not addressing certain aspects of my identity with them; I figured if it didn’t affect them, then they didn’t need to know. I was constantly trying to fit myself into different boxes to make myself manageable for the people I loved, in order to be loved. Yet the more I tried to change, the less I loved myself–and in turn, the more defensive and angry I got when I thought that people were criticizing or questioning the me I was trying to be for them. And the worst part of all was the criticism I turned on myself: if my fabricated self wasn’t good enough for the people in my life, then what would they think if they really knew who I was?
So, as I approach 40, I find myself renewing vows I’d taken for myself a long time ago. It’s amazing how easy it is to forget what we knew all along.
- I believe that people have a right to be honest.
- I believe that people deserve respect for their honesty.
- I believe people should be loved for their honesty, not in spite of it.
- I believe honesty should be reciprocal.
- I believe reciprocal honesty can bring people closer together.
- I believe reciprocal honesty can heal depression, loneliness, and a host of other social illnesses.
- I believe sharing our secrets is the most challenging, most important thing we can do.
- I believe sharing should never be held against a person, no matter how hard it is to reconcile what is shared with our comfort level.
- I believe family should be even more accepting than friends, but that friends are often more supportive than family.
I believe the only way to heal the world is to share everything: successes, failures, fears, anxieties, hopes, and unrealistic dreams. How else can we envision a different world, if we don’t allow ourselves to understand it through as many different lenses as we can?
(mostly) full disclosure 