Deep, Dark Secret It would be so much easier if I had one. Like if I thought I caused my brother’s illness, my boyfriend’s suicide, my parent’s death. Like if I had an alcoholic father, a bipolar mother, a secret abortion. Like if I’d been molested, abused, stalked. Like just about ANYTHING! Then maybe this would make more sense and I could answer the question— Why? But here’s the thing. I don’t have any deep, dark secrets. Not like that anyway. My life’s not some riveting novel where you rush through the pages to get to the end and find out what horrific, repressed memory caused me to cut. The fact is, I’ve had a pretty ordinary childhood. Boring? (Yes.) Predictable? (Yes.) But stitch-worthy? (No.) So I guess that brings me to the real secret. The deepest, darkest kind there is.
