Humans are lucky. Not because we have access to dental care (yes, that’s awesome and kudos to the man who invented Novocain), and not because we have been blessed with the propensity to explore passion and knowledge and feed our curiosities, but because we have language. Because we are fortunate to be able to express ourselves—and in turn, hopefully, understand one another.

But. On the flip side, just because we have language doesn’t mean we always use it when we should. Like the times when you bite down hard on your tongue to stop yourself from saying how you feel for fear of sounding stupid, or hurting someone else, or maybe, just maybe, because your exposed truth might leave you vulnerable to becoming the hurt one.

Of course vulnerability can also lead to greatness. Because when two people are equally invested in their relationship, then being vulnerable suddenly switches from a sign of weakness to one of strength. 

I’m not much of a talker. Never have been. My favorite man, however, is a poet when it comes to emotions and just about anything he wants to say with feeling. He can bend me with his words both in a good way, and bad. Well, maybe bad isn’t the right word … because it’s never bad. It’s just uncomfortably smack-me-in-the-face raw sometimes. Like when I’m stuck on some ridiculous tangent, being a brat, or unreasonable. He never lets me get away with it. I mean for a minute or two, yea, maybe, but then he hits me with a few smack-me-in-the-face raw sentences and I repent. So to speak. As for the good ways, well, let me just say this … with a few words he can send me into orbit—so high that the only way to bring me down is with his touch … and when he touches me, my very soul trembles for more.

“The real lover is the man who can thrill you by kissing your forehead or smiling into your eyes or just staring into space.” ― Marilyn Monroe

And so, we have this thing, he and I, about truth. And I, even when I’m afraid of being vulnerable … even if my hands are shaking, I find a way to speak. Because if I don’t it tears me up. It festers, boils over and rots. Believe me, I know. I spent years mastering the fine, fine art of avoidance and at times, paid dearly for it. But no more.

It is never wrong to speak the truth.

Oh, and for the record … I for one will forever be grateful to the man who invented Novocain—although the dentist scares the piss out of me. Like for real. So much so that at this exact moment I’m beginning to breakout in hives at the mere thought of his chair. Which, I suppose, is far better than having a meltdown because I didn’t speak my truth. Am I right?

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