In the 1950s, families kept secrets:
alcoholic grandparents, mom and dad fights, the occasional divorce, financial
problems, and deranged relatives.
In my mid-twenties, when I started
therapy, I found it difficult to talk about my childhood suffering. Letting go
of secrets took all the energy I could muster, so a discussion of my intuitive
ability took a back seat. I barely admitted that to myself. And yet, my murder
dreams would not abate.
As I turned thirty, I tiptoed into
parapsychology and a world I never knew. At fifty-five, I threw caution to the
wind and opened up about my work on murder cases, and my ability to help people
in unusual ways.
I like the new letting go of secrets. It
seems to make everyone stronger, sweeter, and calmer. A therapist friend claims
that we’re only as sick as our secrets, so let yours fly. I’m glad I revealed
mine.
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