Everyone needs a safe haven. A house that is a home, someone close to you that you can always rely on, or some hobby or activity that makes you forget all your worries for a moment. It makes you feel comfortable and, of course, safe. Then there is the mental safe haven, where you just feel comfortable with everything in your life. But this is actually the most dangerous place for me to be.
The television screen flickers from the film we are watching. We have no idea of what is showing; we have been talking all night. He puts his arm around me, and I feel comfortable. A bit nervous, too: am I fun enough, pretty enough, skinny enough? We are talking like we always do. About personal things — experiences, family. Things said to know each other deeper.
Everyone at the table was staring at me as if I had just been assigned as the new Pope, while I popped another green bean in my mouth. I was just chewing on it like every other person would do, but they acted as if a miracle had just happened. Maybe four years ago, it would have been a miracle. But these days, eating is as much part of my everyday routine as any other woman’s make-up ritual.
I had a secret — a terrible secret that I’d kept from my husband throughout our entire relationship. In fact, it was so bad that I thought it would tear us apart if I ever told him. It was something I hadn’t been honest about before we got involved. Even after we got together, I didn’t have the guts to go to him and come clean; that’s how ashamed I was. I feared that if I ever told him, he was going to tell me to go take a hike.