#1018

How dare you call me cruel for the secrets I withhold from him. Do you truly believe I deny him just to watch him squirm in my shadow? That I delight in his confusion and suffering? As cold as I may be, I’m no sadist. I would never cause the man I love unwarranted grief simply for my own amusement. No, this is a matter of self-preservation. Basic survival. Imagine that every heartache and fear, every betrayal and abuse of your life remains with you as an unhealed wound. Now imagine each of these wounds is held together by nothing but thread, and each stitch in the thread is a secret you guard desperately. Because that’s how we deal with our pasts, isn’t it? We suture our broken hearts and battered souls with secrets, lies, anything to staunch the bleeding, but the injuries never really heal. Unravel the thread and the wound gapes again, fresh and red as the day it was received. So how eager would you be to dig even one of those stitches out knowing it can never be replaced, that now your healing depends entirely on the person to whom you trusted the secret? When all you’ve been doing your entire life is sewing yourself back together with hope the strings hold tight, it’s difficult to hand someone else the scissors and bare your patchwork skin. If I reveal even one secret to him, what guarantee do I have that I won’t bleed out before he can bind the wounds on his own? And even then, do I have any right to ask such a thing of him? I don’t push him away because I’m heartless; I push him away because I’m terrified.

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