palace of winds

For me, St. Patrick’s has become this strange sort of closet-airing holiday. A holiday of brutal honesty and self-reflection. And a day where I always take at least a moment to remember all the wonderful people in my life, and let myself be overwhelmed and deeply grateful that if I fall I will surely be caught. It’s a day for acknowledging that life is so hard and so beautiful.

Back when I was cutting I wrestled a lot with whether or not I should talk to someone about it. It was alternately far too shameful and deviant (I was supposed to be sane, confident, in control; I was supposed to be normal) and far too cliched, trendy, so common that I was silly to be fussing over it that way, feeling like it might be a big deal. So it was by turns too enormous and too insignificant to confess. As I began wanting to stop, the urge to tell someone increased, and the closest I came happened to be St. Paddy’s. In the end I chickened out, but made a promise that by the next St. Patrick’s I would make some peace with this great terrible secret or I would tell someone. And that’s the year I stopped. It wasn’t completely that promise — I was just finally ready, I think — but having that fixed date in mind, that goal, helped. And knowing that there was someone out there who would be the keeper of my secret, someone who at least knew I had one if not what it was, was a great comfort to me during that time.

So to all y’all, Irish or not, kisses from me today.