Confidences, Not Secrets
In the broad scheme of things, we have no secrets; what we have are confidences that too often get betrayed in unguarded yet frank moments to others.
Much as I hear and listen to
a great deal, I am guarded about how I use what I have learnt. I could form opinions
about people, but I am very flexible and, hopefully, tenderhearted, making
allowances until indifference or unkindness breaks the bond.
Indifference is, for
me, the most wicked form of expression in any communication, because it means
there is no care, concern, consideration, or confidence. Whatever confidences
you might have thought you had in that setting are then ready for the careless
abandon of reason and a carefree dissemination to anyone.
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Words have an effect,
a great effect, when what should have been kept in mind finds an outlet to
others. I am also a believer in the biblical saying, “From the abundance of the
heart, the mouth speaketh.” Even discretion and moderation can scarcely stand
in for self-control once you have resolved all inner contention and
convincingly arrived at the conclusion you have uttered.
Being Spoken About
From people I trust,
I have heard the most hurtful things, sometimes directly, though usually
relayed to me through other channels. I bat them away most of the time; yet, in
other situations, the covenant is broken beyond redemption, and the
relationship sours or is terminated for my own peace of mind.
What we cannot avoid
is that we will always be spoken about by someone else: in praise, in jest, in
commendation, in spite, in jealousy, in rancour, or much worse. That is a
given.
I have the outlet of
my blog to reflect on these many things, and perhaps to limit the impact of
malevolence whilst maximising that of benevolence.
Words That Wound
Perhaps decades ago,
it was a guardian relating to someone else that I had been picked up off the
street. I am grateful that my story, which has had many failures, has been
greeted with amazing successes.
Another, whilst I was
in the throes of personal angst and the loss of confidence to project myself,
grew fed up with the process I took towards rebuilding character and purpose.
Out of nowhere came words to the effect that my inability to produce results
was inimical to their social standing; I was the illuminant of a bastard.
To them, that was a
kind of radical intervention to jar my senses, but it did the opposite. It fell
into that rubric of dripping criticism, the kind that strips you of your
dignity to force a reaction and their view of the right result. It is about
them, rather than you.
Shedding Old Skin
For me, there was no
second instinct; I ceased initiating communication from that point. It is the
kind of talk the speaker believes is necessary, but which the listener, with an
appreciation of nuance and the use of language, would find, basically, unforgivable.
Yet these examples
might tempt a recipient to deem such incidents forgettable, until you are
broadsided by the notion that you are living a fake life. I do wish a whole lot
of things were fake: the losses, the cancers, some experiences, a few
tragedies. But what kind of a life would that be?
Perhaps, for once, I
am not remotely my own harshest critic when I allow myself the pleasure of
living, of loving, of existing, and of doing my own thing, unbothered by what
others think, because that is their problem and not mine. Yes, the words do
hurt, but they must not dampen the spirit of the joy of living. Like moulting,
or the shedding of skin, some old bonds need breaking for the renewal of self.
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