Clandestine Confessions

“I don’t know how you do it – consistently work 80 hour weeks. How are you not burnt out? I want to tap out at 35.”
He was sitting at my counter.
Same seat as when he came over for lunch after I had just moved in.
I was standing across from him with glass of water in hand – in my signature stance – my flamingo pose.
Always my left leg propped up.
When cooking, when at the studio, when talking with friends in my kitchen…
No idea when or why this started.
But it is now just default.
–
“I suppose it’s because I know the alternative. The dangers of a mind not consistently occupied.”
I could have elaborated here.
Told him more of why that frightens me so.
Why an idle mind is quite literally the death of me…
The treacherous territory I travel when left to my own devices.
But I stayed quiet.
–
“Plus, I make it mandatory to write at least an hour a day. That is non-negotiable. It balances everything out.”
This caught his attention.
For reasons unknown, my talk of writing always does.
He looked up from his chocolate – eyes met mine.
“That is really really good. Proud of you.”
The accompanying smile was infectious.
—–
“I am so glad you loved The Alpinist.”
It was a continuation of a conversation in text we were having earlier that morning.
After I had just finished watching this movie he recommended about a month before.
Standing, in my flamingo pose, again, at the stove scrambling my eggs when his message came through.
And admittedly burning my bread from getting too invested in our exchange.
“Incredibly so. But I was not at all emotionally prepared for that ending.”
“Nope. No one is. But it is a great story, right?”
It was in that latter sentence I came to understand on a deeper level why he recommended it to me.
It always circles back to my writing…
–
“I was captivated the entire time by his life which is what made that ending so emotionally jolting.”
“What is so amazing about it all is how unknown he was. He wasn’t in it for fame. Just a man doing what he loves because it fills him and thrills him. Not for any other gain but needing an escape from it all.”
“I get that…” I trailed off.
Could this be the moment I expose it all?
“We all need something to save us from ourselves. To give us a mental breather from a life that can become painfully heavy. That is what writing does for me.”
I could have expanded here.
Told him more of what has troubled my mind so terribly that my heart continually begs for relief.
Why I must perpetually purge the thoughts and memories that plaque me.
The consequences of never running from all that has tried to kill me…including versions of myself…and running into all that was designed to heal me.
But I stayed silent.
–
“I could see you making something like that one day. Compile all your stories together.”
Said after having read only one of my stories – that written by a 12 year old me.
It appears he holds more faith in this passion than I do myself…
“You know, just something to do with all that free time of yours,” spoken with a smirk
And it was something about his laugh at the end, the joy in his tone, that turned this idea (perhaps a bit bold) into a new dream.
That has begun rooting deeply into my heart.
—–
“You should come try pilates! I think you would like it.”
As those words escaped my mouth, his near identical ones from 20 months ago echoed in my heart.
Walking back to the hotel with his jacket draped on my shoulders.
“You should come to Utah. I think you would like it.”
How many yeses did that one yes hold…?
“I have been wanting to. Trying to train better for future climbs this year. Hiking volcanoes is no joke.”
–
At some point this conversation went a few layers deeper.
As it naturally tends to do between him and I.
The only person who I could talk to for hours about Lex Friedman podcasts.
“Do you ever think about it…? The potential of what could happen on these more dangerous adventures?”
“I do but do not allow myself to dwell there. It is wise to give it some thought to know how to prepare, how to plan your routes to avoid catastrophe. But you have to then reach a place in the journey where you relinquish it. Knowing you have done all you can. Or else you sacrifice all the joy. You miss out on the life happening before you if overcome with the thoughts of dying.”
I could have responded here.
With an opposing thought.
Told him why I have not considered anything being the death of me since eleven years ago.
“This could kill me.” – no.
“I could kill me.” – yes.
I could have shared with him why, having already stood at that precipice, I live unshaken by the dangers of life.
Perhaps to a fault…
But to be so “reckless” has breathed more life in me than any it could potentially take away.
But I said nothing.
Although I never wanted to speak louder than I did in that moment.
My silence became deafening to myself.
Long after he walked out my front door…
The words left unspoken still haunt me today.
–
I know the day is coming when my past will see the light with him.
I have dreamt of the reveal a few times in the past couple of months.
Each one ending beautifully.
So I have yet to uncover why, me as the woman who is an open book and wears her emotions on her sleeve, is so scared to disclose it all…
How long will I allow myself to operate from a betrayed soul?
How long will I allow myself to bleed onto those who have been trying to stitch the wounds (even if unknowingly)?
How long will I allow my mind to say no with a heart screaming at a glass shattering decibel yes?
Perhaps those answers await me this year…