NYC, 17 April-2014, Lauren LMoney Martin: Secrets are no fun unless they’re shared with everyone, right? Wrong. Secrets are part of our identity, the fiber of our being and the face that hides beneath the wide smiles and blinking lashes.
They are the untold stories that keep us awake and the innermost urges we’ll never admit. Women are made up of secrets as much as they are made up of atoms and water. It’s these secrets that keep us rooted to the ground, secure us from floating away.
Pressing down with a weight that seeps into our shoulder blades and hunches us over across cemented streets, we carry them. We carry them to brunch and to dinner, to work and to happy hour.
We take them to bed with us and hold them tight throughout our sleep. We wake up with them and nurse them throughout the day. Sometimes we forget they are there, but quickly remember as one does a child who has gone missing from her arm. F*ck, another one latches on.
They are our worst fears, desires and ugliest thoughts. They are the things we won’t tell even our closest friend or nurturing mother. They are our own daggers, knives that can only be taken out by our own hands. We think our secrets are unique and diverse, yet many of them are universal. They are fears and desires that we pick up around us, that are bred from society and a culture obsessed with structure.
So as you are burdened in your load, just know that you’re not the only one feeling this way. We all carry some of the same secrets.
Every woman has had that man who cut her deep, and if you haven’t, then you have the pain of wanting a man to cut you deep, and sometimes that longing can be worse than the pain itself.
We will never be able to express just how deeply our pain runs, how often we really think about the man who broke our hearts, or hasn’t yet.
There will always something wrong with us — at least, that’s how we feel. No matter how beautiful and perfect we are, we will always find a flaw or imperfection and will always desire to be better. We’ve gotten used to feeling inadequate.
Our mothers raised us, but they could never be us. We all hold a deep fear of the moment we look into the mirror and see our mother — all her sorrow, mistakes and regrets.
We may not want to be them, but we respect them enough to know that our mothers are probably the best versions of ourselves we could ever be.
They are the women we can only hope to become in a world full of phonies and materialistic fools. They are the best women we know and to become something else seems wrong.
Whether it’s a fear that we won’t find the right man, or a burning desire to never share our lives, every woman holds that secret of believing she will never tie the knot. We’ll be crazy spinsters until the day our neighbors call our distant relatives, and that sounds okay.
We’ve seen the pictures of our great grandmothers, watched the wrinkles forming around our mothers’ necks and seen parts of us growing and expanding that we assumed would never happen.
We walk around knowing that one day we will all have wrinkles and greying hair. We will lose our teeth and no longer wear smooth skin. One day we will look in the mirror and see a withered form of the young and beautiful girls who used to look back at us.
Even the closest of girlfriends may have slept with a man or two whose stories they haven’t shared. Many of us have had that night of poor judgment or weeks of bad taste, where we lost our sensibility and pride for a man who wasn’t worth it. But we assuage our pain with the idea that if we don’t tell anyone about it, it didn’t really happen. Right?
Crushes are secrets as much as the unfailing fears of aging we won’t admit. We all have a burning desire to obtain an ideal man, sometimes it’s the guy at work who pops up in our dreams, or it’s a guy we slept with one who still doesn’t remember our name, and may never.
After taking birth control, plan B and being generally careless all these years, we don’t deserve to get pregnant. Little do our unwed husbands know that we’ve been taking pills that could potentially mess with our fertility for years.
No, many of us will never actually go through with it, but we’ve all thought about it. While we proclaim how bad and stupid it looks, we can’t help but wonder what we’d look like with a little collagen and some fillers. Plastic surgery is for the fake, but they do look like pretty damn good fakes.
Even if you know you love men, there hasn’t been a woman who hasn’t entertained the idea of being with another woman at least once.
In our worst moments, filled with resentment and hatred towards the opposite sex, we’ve stared at the supple breasts and tight ass of the girl in front of us and thought about it.
Jealousy is innate within us. We are loving and affectionate creatures with a side of competition and scorn. We love our friends but we haven’t refused to entertain ideas of them not always getting everything they want or feeling the same pain we’ve felt.
No matter how content a woman has become with her looks, how little weight she’s learned to give to them, there will always be moments when she wished she looked like Grace Kelly or Penelope Cruz.
No woman will deny that beauty allots a certain power and ease to life that makes us all envious of the girl with a perfect bone structure and effortless body.