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.