Someone I’ve never seen, looked deep into my eyes today and told me no one had seen her, ever.

This is a tragedy.

Point 1:

We too rarely say what we mean, or what we feel. People long to hear the good. They hope to be liked, seen, heard, appreciated. A kind word, a true word, is like the juice of a fresh grape on a parched throat. Yet we don’t speak our observances aloud…

Point 2:

I’m an idiot. I do. Apparently, it’s a syndrome called “blurting?” Sadly, it is connected to ADHD. I always thought it was connected to “artism,” or maybe “careism,” or “loveism.” Apparently not; it’s now considered an illness, like all other societally aberrant observational passions and transparencies. No wonder they crucified Jesus; surely He was a blurter of love too.

Point 3:

There are many dangers to speaking the truth.  Example: I live in a 3-tenant building. Last night, midnight, Krazy Kevin, dweller of the main floor above me, who has never worked, is state subsidized from his head to his toes, parties nightly, had his kids taken away, smokes 2 packs a day, was outside in my backyard (he has the front) yelling at the tenant who lives in the top floor, who’d just returned home early from vacation. I’d stepped out to let the my dogs go potty.

Krazy Kevin was wearing a head lamp and was yelling about my lawn furniture in the backyard. He said he could see it from his window. It was true; I’d moved it there a day before. He said he’d found drunks sleeping there all the time, and that he was going to come out and shoot them one night if he saw any again.

So I, Blurting Betty said, “you mean you’re going to come out and shoot me if I decide to take a nap on my lawn chair?” I also asked him to stop pointing his headlamp in my eyes. I also asked him why there’s so many empty black-berry-brandy-bottles on his lawn. I also challenged his assertion that the state would kick him out because of my lawn furniture. He replied that if he gets kicked out because of the backyard, he’ll start shooting. I called the dogs and went in; The frightened tenant from upstairs immediately followed. She’s afraid of whatever tribal gang he’s affiliated with. For some reason Blurting Betty wasn’t last night, or maybe it was just the last straw, that day, that moment, that headlamp in my eyes.

Point 4:

We also don’t tell the terrible things.

Once, when a terrible thing happened to us, I told a group of women associates. Every single one, but one, who stood apart from the group somber and silent, said the same thing had happened to her too, but she’d never told anyone. We also don’t tell the terrible things. We carry shame, shadow and stress and thus socially isolate our stories, keeping everyone else who’s experienced the same, in estranged silence. This is why:

Point 5:

we all feel like aliens.

Including Krazy Kevin, at least at one time. Now his gang is his gang, the place where his alien skin can be stripped and left laying beside him, where blackberry-brandy-bottles emptied on the lawn become diamonds not rust.

I abhor stroking the Kevins of the world. They are black holes, feel-sorry-for-me-eternal victims, angry because they made the choices they did, self-righteous about their unrighteousness. I get weary of them.

But

The others, the ones who walk this planet lightly, reaching for others, silently serving and showing… oh, they are the ones who should hear a silver bell of a compliment, a timbrel of truth about themselves that they knew inside but none ever validated… no not once. These pillars of light and love and holy air deserve to, every now and again on the wind of our lips, be told some good truth about themselves.

Point 6:

So speak up if it’s safe, and sometimes speak up if it’s not. Whisper sweet truths, yell fierce ones.

Don’t stay silent.

Stop staying comfortable.