When I was an infant, my father attended seminary in Virginia. He graduated an Episcopal priest three years later with Mom, another infant, and a three-year-old in tow.
We migrated to Georgia, where Dad catapulted straight into the profession of head priest of two small parishes simultaneously. Most graduates tend to slowly rise from Deacon, Assistant Priest, and a few years later become head of their own church.
My dad skipped all of that and dove head first.
I grew up in a tight knit, two-parent household with three little sisters. Open lines of communication were “normal” for us. We had regular family meetings where we “passed the stick,” each member taking the floor while holding the stick. We rose into adulthood with a clear sense of how to solve problems without violence.
As a preacher’s kids, my sisters and I had an important duty to uphold. We must keep one secret from everyone, no exceptions. This task was difficult, especially for kids no older than six years.
When we planned to move away and join another church, we could not let that secret slip to anyone. If the church discovered this secret before Dad was ready to reveal this piece of information to the whole congregation, many problems would arise. We could not tell a soul, not even our best friends.
In the second grade, I sat next to the same boy at lunch every day. He would trade me his roll for my corn.
I got the better end of that deal, right?
During that time in my life, I had issues with texture and constraint in the clothes I wore, so my wardrobe was free of pants, elastic, tights, etc. Only loose dresses and skirts. My shoes always clashed, and sometimes my socks matched.
One day, for reasons unknown, I wore a pair of denim shorts to school. Aforementioned boy shouted across the cafeteria when I walked in, “Samantha is wearing pants!” It was big news. Seriously, it was big news. Of course, I was mortified, and probably rescinded my corn offering that day.
Shortly before my family moved to Savannah, having hidden this news even from my best friend, my eighth-grade class took a field trip. On the bus, this corn-loving childhood friend asked if I would “go out” with him. I denied his request, and could not tell him why. If I had wanted to be his girlfriend, there was no time.
Secrets can hurt. Before the move, I developed my first signs of depression. I stayed home from school; I had a stomach ache, headache, and I was filled with dread. I drank apple juice and ate nothing. I had no psychiatrist, and my pediatrician was baffled. Holding that secret inside, I was seized by the crippling anxiety of imminent change.
Now, apple juice is a trigger for me. I do not drink it, for fear of flashbacks.
We all keep secrets. When I discovered the existence of psychiatric disorder within myself, I kept this secret. I felt privileged with information only I could see, holding an invisible weight above society. Many years later, revealing that secret felt brave. A burden was lifted. Due to my vulnerability, I am able to speak freely about mental illness without shame. I am filled with hope, caused not from hiding but for opening my heart to help others. Secrets can protect us, but some secrets need air.
–SJB