“Studies show that the average person keeps thirteen secrets, five of which he/she has never shared with anyone else.”

I stare vacantly at the line, which I sense stares accusingly back at me. Only thirteen? I wonder out loud. But it is not the number that befuddles me.

It’s the kind of secrets I’m more curious about.

Are these the little white lies we tell those we love, so we can spare their feelings?

Are these the many omissions we make at work, so we can keep up a professional front?

Are these the controversial conversations we evade, to placate our neighbours and society?

Or how about the untruths we conjure up to end a difficult relationship?

The fabrications we slip into our stories for want of drama and theatrics?

Or maybe, the realities we bend to gain recognition and sympathy?

Each of these are secrets in their own way – each hiding the truth behind layers we convince ourselves are necessary, harmless and forgivable. Until they are not. Until, before you know it, you have misled someone into caring deeply for you, with no intention to reciprocate. Until you wake up one day to find you have let down a colleague, or worse, broken your mother’s heart. 

I stare at the line again, this time with eyes less vacant. I try to bury the flashes of times I slipped into the tempting world of secrecy, as my conscience haggles me to confront the memories. Doing anything less, I realise, would be an untruth.

While the ethical debate of lies and secrecy can be left to the researchers, I make an important decision for myself. I may not be able to rid myself and the world from secrets, but I can fight the temptation to keep secrets from myself. 

Delusion is easy; reality, not so much. I no longer want to be the girl who paints halos around people who aren’t kind. No longer will I make excuses for myself by shying away from what’s staring me in the face. No longer will I allow myself to see the world through a veil; I have learnt this is the path to heartbreak and discontent.

I don’t believe I have kept only thirteen secrets thus far – or even thirteen times thirteen. And that’s okay. Not everyone needs to know me, the real me. But there are two kinds of secrets I will try my damndest best to stay away from: the kind that hurt the people I love, and the kind I try to keep from myself.

Some days, I don’t know which is harder. But most days, my world becomes a little bit better, all because I try.