Writing Diaries #9: Keeping secrets

Secrets feed on shame and diminish us

I wrote the following piece based on diary entries from the 1970s. I was in my early twenties and cared a lot about fitting in. It took me many years to learn how to let go of other people's expectations, but I'm the better for it.

My secrets grew out of the disconnect between the way of life my Italian immigrant parents instilled in me and the North American lifestyle of the 1960s and 70s. My father, a brutal man, had total control over our family. He abandoned us when I was sixteen. Unfortunately, by then I had internalized his lessons and I struggled to let go of the strictures of his medieval peasant culture. (That struggle is the subject of my memoir, Elvie: Girl Under Glass. )

My secrets

by Elvira Cordileone

I am who I am. I intend no self-criticism by that -- and yet...

It's 1:30 a.m. and I can't sleep. My secrets clamber to come out, filling my head with noise. I don't know what to do.

I sit on my narrow bed scribbling in an almost-full notebook. My room is dark as I write by the light of a small lamp on the bedside table. I write a lot; writing is my

way of searching for solutions and easing my melancholy.

Here's the problem: My friends think I'm like them but I'm not. I'm in my twenties but I don't have the freedom to come and go as they do. It's exhausting keeping up the pretense that I do. It takes work behind the scenes, arguing with my mother before the fact, explanations and arguments after the fact.

I have to find a way to build a life that belongs to me rather than my family.

It's now 1:31 a.m. I have ached badly and for so long I've forgotten what it's like to live without this anguish. I put down the pen. I take a sip of water and glance at my sister sound asleep in the other twin bed. She's six years younger than me and seems happier. But who knows?

The clock says 1:32 a.m. This last minute felt like hours. Nothing has changed, however and nothing will change until I do something about it.

I have tried to ignore the fact that I am prisoner of my upbringing. Part of that training instilled in me the idea that breaking the rules -- my family's rules -- would bring catastrophe. The possibility frightens me and prevents me from taking steps that would free me. Whatever strength of character I might have had has been diminished by years of my father's cruelty . The defenses I built to protect myself from him are not easily dismantled.

Now at 1:33 a.m. my head threatens to crack open; my brain feels suddenly too big for my skull.

At 1:34 a.m. I realize my secrets are an important part of my self-protection system; it could dangerous for me to suddenly destroy them. It push me from profound sadness into madness. I worry a lot about losing my mind and ending up in a looney bin. My father is crazy. Maybe I am like him.

No, it's probably best not to upend my life, at least for now.

A second after I write down that last sentence, a black cloud of disappointment hangs over me. I say to myself, "You are a coward. You are a shaking bowl of jelly. Shame on you for your passivity." It's 1:36 a.m.

I consider some options. Maybe it would help to tell my secrets to a friend. Speaking out might ease my heart the way going to confession used to do. Whenever I walked out of the confessional box after telling the priest my sins, I felt unburdened, light as air. Maybe revealing myself would give me the strength to free myself.

At 1:37 a.m. I face the fact that nothing will change until I'm ready to saw away at the ropes of my upbringing; they hamper any chance I have of finding joy. I'm not sure I'm ready to accept the consequences, including my mother's broken heart.

In thought and deed, I try to be like my parents, like their people. It goes against the grain. I am not that person and never will be. My attempt to please them runs headlong into my natural resistance. It's making me crazy.

If I want to survive, I will have to physically move far away from them and their influence. This insight is crucial.

But soon, at 1:38 a.m. I realize I'm not strong enough to take such a big step. I have to build up my stamina bit by bit. Still, I've reached an important conclusion and I release a sigh of relief.

My sister turns in her sleep. I look at the clock. It's 1:39 a.m.

I turn out the light at 1:40 a.m. and slide between clean sheets. I have a plan.

Elvira Cordileone is the author of Elvie: Girl Under Glass, a memoir