Honesty, at its best...

Before my most recent ex-boyfriend asked me to marry him, he consistently informed me that he found no satisfaction in my physical appearance. It didn't bother him to tell me daily that he was disappointed in my face and hair and body; but rather than allowing his words to motivate me to make the appropriate changes (like, kick him in the sack before telling him to screw off, for example), his 'honesty' was the key to unlocking a million repressed memories and feelings, while transforming me into a mere shadow of the person I could be. 

Piecing together the remainder since he's been gone has been a little bit like gluing back together the bits of a shattered porcelain doll face - it never looks quite the same after it's been broken. 

Now, as a result of his malice, I have these seams and scars and reminders: evidence of honesty, gone wrong.

But truth done right - honesty, at its best - should be the very thing sustaining and stimulating me.

When I talk to my best friend on the phone, the role she plays is that of the Voice of Reason. What makes her my best friend is that she rarely tells me those things I long to hear. Instead, she is brave enough to speak the truth in a beautiful and comforting way.

She said, "Now, I'm going to tell you something, Claire, and I want you to listen. If you recall nothing else, remember this..." The noise of the road disappeared as her voice filled the car with simple truth and I pretended there weren't tears in my eyes. Just because her honesty slapped me in the face, that didn't mean her intentions were to be anything but helpful and loving. I heard her; and I'm still remembering.

Now, as a new year approaches, I begin to wonder what I should do differently. As I examine things internally, I realize more and more of my neurotic insecurities: It seems that every year has been a little more chaotic than the last. 

I watched as he stood over his stove and concocted some mixture of chai tea and various other ingredients, and even though his observations about my nature made the back of my eyes burn and my stomach twist into knots, I wanted to hear it all. Even if what he said about me was said out of narcissism and diffidence, his unfavorable observation was definitive of who I am, unabashed, to another.

Later, he said that if he's going down, he wants it to be with me. Whatever he meant by that, it wasn't a compliment; but as I watched him scramble to remove his foot from his mouth, I realized that he had just said what I was never going to admit; and, truthfully, I needed to hear it.

Now, with the changing of seasons and impending holidays, I'm packing away the flip-flops and tanning oil. When I think of where I was on this day last year, it seems that I was once a little more sincere. 

My mattress was in the living room again that day, when we avoided the football game to lay side-by-side atop a pile of blankets. As we talked about the past and it's affect on our future, he offered that maybe my feelings of insufficient love for him were indications of actual, raw love. 'Maybe,' he said, 'real love is recognizing one's inability to love wholly.'

In the past, he had told me that he would prefer my selfish love to none at all. He said that if that was the best I could offer, it was more than enough.

Now that it's getting dark earlier, my evenings are extended, leaving more time to reflect. It seems every time I've thought I was right, there was still more truth to uncover; but if I had known this before, I might have been too lazy to seek it.

I'm not sure how it is that honesty is welcomed as rare and refreshing when it comes in the form of undivulged flattery, but when that honesty is delivered without the accompanying 'warm fuzzy,' we are offended and become withdrawn. We want to be coddled, but never challenged.

When my best friend failed to hold anything back, she allowed me an opportunity to stop being a fool and start being truthful.

When a new friend began to question my integrity to my face, he did it out of genuine concern; and the image I knew he had of me was, at least, a real one. Thanks to his effrontery, I can begin to make things right.

When an old friend fanned the flame of my public-display-of failure by mentioning my short-comings, he meant never to harm me. He meant, rather, to hold me in his arms as he walked me through the truth. Together, as we are walking, I desire to do the same for him...