There is a crippling saying in most households that has damaged the heart and soul of the youth. For generations we have grown accustomed to the phrase “What happens in this house, stays in this house.” not knowing that it has taken healing from the oppressed and cut the tongue off of survivors. It has unknowingly bred people who are afraid of addressing their pain, still fearing repercussions from the truth long after childhood has ended.

As someone who is quite familiar with this mantra I can confidently say that it can come from very well intentended people. That this saying isn’t always meant to cut, that at times may even be assumed to protect the one it is directed to. 

While intent is important, there is a realistic effect of this mentality, one that pushes the narrative that the truth is damaging, to protect reputation over self. 

While no one would outwardly tell you to swallow your emotions with the risk of choking on them in the future. Or, suppress your pain until it spills over the counters in your life; it is fair to say that it equates in the long run. That the directive to internalize things meant for release will make you ill, even cost you your life. 

This piece was my last hope of survival. Not because I desired to connect with others, because I was suffocating. 

Because anxiety consumed me at night, 

Because skeletons were always never too far behind me, even when I ran at warp speed.

The beginning stages of my life were spent protecting my family from judgment and criticism. Despite the commonplace of broken homes and parental feuds I was a vault, with the password unbeknownst to even myself. Each holiday, family occasion and school friendship accompanied with half truths. Each I’m fine, we’re fine, said with a little more doubt than the last. As the days and years progressed so did the rifts in my household, but everyday I opened my front door like I was prepared for the press; making sure to have pen, paper and facade before boarding the school bus. Always prepared to uphold the family name. 

While no one in my household knighted me defender of the kingdom, terms like family business, personal, private and “this stays in this house” spun around me till I was wrapped in armor, until the truth was barricaded within me, until I no longer felt it safe to speak out loud. 

I began to fear truth like it was a weapon, thought of it as kryptonite, thought surely it would kill me.  

This fear exasperated, grew legs like a weed, infected every part of my life. What began as a learned mantra transformed into my coping mechanisms, transformed into how I dealt with pain. Made it instinctual to isolate, instinctual to fabricate my wellness. 

I began to feel excessively grateful for those who knew my truth. Felt honored to be accepted with my baggage, thought only saints could love all that I was; always feeling the need to show gratitude for being accepted. 

But overtime the practicing of this theory began to show nothing but barren fruit, began to manifest in making me physically ill, began to push me to my limits and consume me with self doubt. 

You don’t know who you are when you don’t trust yourself to be transparent. When you’re afraid of the reactions to your unveiling, when you hide in the shadows instead.

After enough heartache and suffering to break the strongest man or woman God reminded me that testimonies are what battles are made for. That the only thing that has ever gotten me through a storm is someone telling me how they survived theirs, how God didn’t let them break.

I began to find power in the truth, realizing that it will always resonate more than constructed strength. That masks are for performances, not souls yearning to be free.

As a former hostage to secret toting skeletons I can say that fear has been way more vicious than the truth. That my inability to speak my peace has always been what has unsettled me, not what I actually have to say. That harboring hostility has led me to the breaking point on several occasions, overflowing when all I had to do was pour a little out, despite the possibility of a splash.

I say this to say that that splash is pennies in exchange for your peace. That anything that prefers you to silently suffer in exchange for it’s comfort doesn’t understand the value of freedom, no matter how good they mean you. It’s time to break cycles of familial secrecy, not as an act of disrespect or disloyalty, as an act of grace. Removing their chains so they can walk beside you. It is time to start healing each other.

I drowned in tradition and came back to tell you that the truth will set you free,

That there is no wound too deep for God to see you differently

That secrecy becomes its’ own beast if you’re not careful.

There is a handful that you are meant to share with this world, 

…...Don’t be too busy calling it shame.