Getting Honest

The weeks that followed were lived in a fog. I went on a confessional apology tour, bringing anyone I had any semblance of a close relationship over the past ten years into the fold. In retrospect, I cringe at these conversations—I must have sounded like a lunatic at the time. I was grasping for some sort of understanding, some sort of answer, some sort of solution, and what came out was all kinds of crazy stuff.

Between these conversations, I spent my days at various coffee shops, avoiding the office but also avoiding being home alone (where I knew I would act out). At night, one friend (wisely) realized I didn’t need to be alone during this time, and he (kindly) invited me to crash at his place for a few weeks. His mere presence—a concrete demonstration of the fact that I was exposed and yet not completely abandoned—was a gift I cannot repay.

There are so many events during those weeks that I look back on as significant in my journey; I could fill twenty blog posts just with that time. On the afternoon of my (first) confession, I had my first therapy session. Later, I had the humiliating experience of getting STD tests done (mercifully, I had none). I went before my church’s elders and was removed from my leadership position. And, my business sat me down and told me that if I didn’t go to in-patient treatment I would be fired.

Throughout this time, my friends implored me, “If there is more, now is the time to tell it.” But, I just wanted to give enough information to get the heat off of me. I tried to answer their questions, and I thought I was being honest enough. There were still some things I intended to take to my grave. Finally, one friend said, “Your story keeps changing. No more questions. Take some time. Write it all down, and then let’s talk.”

Well, shit. Evidently my efforts to manage the situation were failing.

As I began to write, more and more memories came flooding back to me. At first I thought my lies were close enough to the truth, but I soon began to realize I was not even in the same ballpark. The numbers, the time, the money, and the list of particularly shameful details grew and grew. I wrote it all down and was overwhelmed by what I saw. Still, there were things I had done that I did not even dare to write down—I could never tell those things.

But, a funny thing happened that afternoon. I was driving down the road to meet a friend—to this day, I could take you to the piece of concrete I was on—when the thought occurred to me, “What if God uses this journey to make it to where I can’t successfully keep secrets anymore? What if I actually can’t take those things to the grave? Isn’t that what I’m hoping for anyway?”

I had heretofore been such an excellent secret keeper, the thought of being unable to hold them was jarring. But, it also immediately struck me as true. Everything my friends had been telling me—now is the time—came rushing back to me. And, for the first time, the thought of being truly, completely honest came to my mind. I was not yet willing, but I was open to the possibility.

So, I called my pastor—the one who had been walking through this with us—and I informed him that I did, in fact, have more I needed to share. We scheduled a time for me to come bring it all to him, and then for me to share that information with G. When she called that night, I told her I wanted to meet in person one more time, I had more information to share. And, this time she would get the complete truth, to-the-grave secrets and all.

Flash forward a week, and I sat with G. in our pastor’s office and read to her my confession. Complete disclosure (with the consultation of our pastor—do not do this without help). All of my darkest secrets. The things I knew no one could hear and still love me. When I finished reading, I couldn’t lift my head. I knew she was disgusted, shocked, and probably numb. I was still a little surprised she had not simply walked out.

Instead, the damnedest thing happened. She said, “I love you. I have hope for you. I believe you can be a great man (or, maybe just a good man). I believe you can be a great father. And, I believe God has plans for you.”

I was amazed to hear those words coming out of her mouth. I felt so unworthy to hear any word of kindness from her, much less a blessing of that sort. Six years later, I still marvel at her.

But, of course, these were words about me, not about us. As best I could tell, there was no hope there. When we were done, she got back in the car and drove out of town again. It would be the last time I would see her for two months. A few days later I packed a bag and headed off to in-patient treatment.