In early 2002, I went on retreat to the Abbey of Gethsemani in Trappist, Kentucky. This wonderful monastery is one of my favorite places in the world, and it has been entirely too long since I spent any time there. My mom had passed away just a few months before this visit. It had been nearly seven years since my Darkest Day, and four since I'd finished with therapy, yet I still found myself grappling with the issue of my own acceptability among decent company. I would continue to struggle with this for another seven years before making any real progress, after which I would discuss it further when I reentered therapy to work on some other issues. Yet something that I was told that weekend proved to be both very helpful for me at the time and somewhat vexing over time.
The specific issue I was dealing with was this inward sense I had that I was being dishonest with everyone who considered themselves my friend without knowing my dark history. I was raised to value integrity, and I was convinced that one of the worst violations of it was to present myself as a decent person knowing that I had not been, or to "pretend" I was close to someone who didn't know this dark chapter of my life. I felt that I was accepting people's friendship under false pretenses, which I judged to be like stealing their affection.
In the course of the weekend, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to participate in the sacrament of reconciliation with Fr. Matthew Kelty. Fr. Matthew spoke to the retreatants for five or ten minutes each evening after Compline, or night prayer. This prayer service occurs at 7:30 most evenings, which works well for the monks who arise in time to participate in Vigils at 3:15 a.m., but to most retreatants seems a bit early to retire. Since retreats at the Abbey are mostly self-directed and filled with more silence than many of us are accustomed to on a regular basis, this short session would provide a bit of food for evening reflection if we were so inclined. Fr. Matthew usually shared a couple of spiritual poems, then a reflection of his own, sometimes reading from one of his excellent books, such as My Song is of Mercy. At any rate, I was so pleased to see him at confession, as he seemed like a straight shooter who would help me gain some clarity regarding the distance I felt from everyone who didn't know about the worst part of my past.
He had a very different take on this from what I expected. While affirming my sense of integrity and honesty, and quite the opposite of minimizing the wrong I'd done, he suggested that keeping this part of myself from most people was an act of mercy. It was a very difficult thing to accept, he acknowledged, and I was surrounded by people who would feel obliged to try to accept me anyway, and who would with great effort manage to arrive at a point with regard to their opinion of me very similar to where they already were before I shared with them. It was a burden I shouldn't lay on most people, he said, in nearly those exact words.
In the short term, it was a great load off of me. Years before, my counselors had also suggested that I'd already told everyone I should feel obliged to share this with, yet the intervening years had left me still feeling cautiously distant from everyone who didn't know. "How could you keep something like that from me?" I could imagine them accusing me. Fr. Matthew's reassurance that I had a good reason not to share this readily helped me remove the false burden of obligation with which I'd been struggling.
In the long run, his answer proved problematic. "You're right," he seemed to say, in way, "this is a really big deal." It became an increasing concern for me over the next several years, as I heard friends weigh in with their opinions of people who made the news for things that seemed similar to what I had done.
Then a friend I wasn't expecting entered my life, and helped me learn to cut myself some slack. My subsequent stint in therapy helped with that, too. I now seem to have a better sense of when I should share my past, not out of a sense of obligation or hidden self-judgment, but when sharing might do some tangible good. I've given my testimony in front of a hundred people, and received reconciliation with estranged family members, and seem to know in an instant when I'm in a situation that calls for sharing this part of myself.
Now, after nearly three decades, I'm going to see a friend with whom I was once closer than anyone else in my life. She's the last person I can think of with whom I have a very strong sense of owing the sharing of my story. I don't know that the opportunity will even arise. I don't know that I will take advantage of the chance if it does, and I don't know that I really should. I have so much else to be cautious with; I should never aspire for that "closer than anyone else" status again with her, and I can peacefully and honestly say that I don't.
I'm also trying not to borrow anxiety over this, but I think it will be good to be ready for however it plays out.
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