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I told the truth

Tell all the truth but tell it slant — (1263)

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind —


By Emily Dickinson


I told the truth, but I told it slant.

Raised always to be a good girl, go to Church, take the Sacraments, be a good student, work hard, study hard, pray hard.

The reward for all of this was a completely miserable existence. As the years dragged on, the truth was so bleak, I told it, just slant. If I could make my story happy, it would be happy. Writers say the story is all in the way you frame it. Maybe if I slanted the truth just enough, twisted it in the light like a prism - just the right way, the truth would be a rainbow emerging from storm clouds. Shattering the darkness.

If I laughed a little, and twisted it just a tad, and then a tad more, the clouds appeared to blow by.

I wrapped this rainbow around me as I contorted myself into every variation of perfect I could find. I would clean constantly. I would cook impeccably. I would mother whole-heartedly. I would love entirely. Foot behind my head, and elbow wrapped around my body, I would hop into the morning looking for the next way to be a better version of myself. 

Contortionists are funny, and what is funny cannot be terrible - right? Oh, my God, but it hurts. 

I reread my words.

SLANT.

My constant reassurance that EVERYTHING IS NORMAL AND FANTASTIC HERE - SEE? Seems so heavy-handed, so saccharine, "I love him so much. He is so good." So clearly false.

Could you tell? Did you realize it was fiction - ish? 

The stories are slant. I laughed instead of crying. I did as I was told, "If you want to be happy, choose happiness." "It is the wolf you feed." "Happiness is a choice." So, I tried to choose happiness, forgetting I have one precious life. My kids have one precious life. My life should be more than slant. I should be more than slant.

It was very uncomfortable to watch me untangle. It is hard to breath when one is slanted. I inhaled the reality that this carefully constructed lie was only as strong as me. Suddenly, I was awfully, dreadfully, terribly tired.

Every day I told myself, "One more day," until the days wore out and I had to put both feet on the floor. Both hands at my side.

These days, it's not perfect, but it's pretty good. I'm learning to breathe, and to stand in the straight sunlight. Imperfectly, honestly, blindingly me.

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