I got a call last night from an old mate.
Well, less of an old mate and more a guy I used to work with over ten years ago. He was a genuinely nice guy, a gentle soul that I'd kept in patchy contact with since I left the job but when my phone rang last night if you'd have asked me to guess who was calling I would still have been there in a "Mrs Doyle tring to guess Father Todd Unctious' name in Father Ted" kind of way.
Father Neil Hannon!
Father Spodo Komodo!
Yes Polka, we all do reference Ted constantly.
We talked for a while and I caught up with what he was doing, how his health was (not great) and how he'd had a recent bout of depression. It only took me aback for a second as its no big deal in the job I do but, it and another conversation I had with someone recently, did lead me down a slightly different path.
You are the only person who has a secret.
It's killing you. Eating you up inside. Possibly even ruining your life. Your child isn't really fathered by your boyfriend, you've stolen something, double-crossed someone, cheated on your girlfriend, enjoy something that's not seen as the norm, spent time in a hospital being treated for depression, hate your parents, any one of the thousands and thousands of things that are part of the human experience.
Anytime I feel like my secrets are weighing me down I go to Postsecret (usually every Sunday when they post new ones) and I feel a little better.