Every time I sit down to write, I think about this blog. Its name, “My Little-Known Truth”, speaks to me in more ways than the journey you started following years ago. I think that’s why I stopped writing here. When my life took a turn, when the focus was no longer on that side of me, it felt like this was not the place to be putting down my thoughts.
The reality, my reality, is that no one really knows my truth, because I’ve rarely let anyone know the real me. I don’t think I really knew me until a few short months ago. It’s hard waking up one day to realize you’ve been lying to everyone. Literally everyone, including yourself.
I’ve led a segmented life for as long as I can remember. When I interact with my family it’s in groups, because no one can get along, no one wants to come together. My friends don’t know my family, only the stories I’ve told them. I have different groups of friends, none of whom know anyone outside their group.
Even with my relationships I’ve kept things with them separate from everything else. It takes a certain length of time before I’ll introduce them to friends, another length of time before I’ll subject them to the disaster that is my family. Generally speaking this is fine, but sometimes it’s an issue especially when they think it’s because I’m holding back.
The truth is I am holding back. Its been like that forever. If I look and try to find the why, now it’s clear. I’ve been living a series of lies, each segment of my life will see a part of me, but no one sees the whole. I tell people what they want to hear, I do the things they want to do, and I pretend to be the person they want me to be, because it’s easier and safer than being me.
So, who am I? I am a broken woman from an abusive home. Outside of that I’m not quite sure.
As a child I would spend hours, days, months, years, pretending that I was one of the characters in the stories I wrote. I convinced myself that I looked different, came from a different place, with different parents and a different life. So much so that I can remember looking in the mirror and being surprised to see the girl reflected there.
My mom switched my last name several times. Legally I had one name, but she would use her own last name when she talked about me or registered me in things like school or extra circular activities. At eight, a year after she married my step-father, they used his name for me at school and outside of it, but it was never legally mine. In twelfth grade, the school forced them to change it back to my legal name or I wouldn’t graduate. That was the start of my lies, one that continued into my early twenties when I took my god parents name (not legally), because it was a way to escape my unhappy story.
I’ve pretended for so long that the things that happened to me didn’t. For many situations I’ve got myself convinced that what I remember isn’t real, that it didn’t happen. It did. I’ve hid mistakes I’ve made and told half truths about them to a few people, but never the real story because the truth is fucked up…really fucked up.
I feel the need to tell the truth. I think it’s a part of fixing the things inside me that make it hard to be a good partner, a strong woman, and an effective employee. So, although the tone of this will change, I will still be writing things that are connected to what I’ve written in the past. I plan on posting some of my stories, and some other pieces of my life. This is no longer going to be about one piece of me, but all sides.
They say that people want to read about the journey. So, this is my journey, my story, my truth, unabridged and in all it’s fucked up glory. I hope you’ll stay, I hope you’ll walk the journey with me. Most of all, I hope that something in here resonates with you; because that’s the piece that connects us. Everyone has different struggles, but we all struggle, and sometimes all we need to know is that someone else out there is struggling too.
Until we meet in real life, you can call me Cordelia.