Skeletons In The Trunk

On a recent trip to the grocery store, I heard a strange creak each time we rolled to a stop. I looked back, turned to my boyfriend and asked, “What’s in the truck?”

I knew there is a spare tire, a box of old computer parts for the electronics recycle, and two P-100 masks and googles for when we need to visit the moldy condo. There are neon orange safety vests, a wool blanket, and a car battery jump-starter. But none of those things should squeak or scrape.

“Oh, that’s the skeleton,” he replied nonchalantly.

It took me a beat to remember that a family friend had gifted him an old model skeleton upon acceptance to medical school. My in-laws demanded we “get that thing out of the house” so it’s now, apparently, living in the trunk of the car.

There is a idiom: skeletons in the closet. It refers to a shameful secret that could seriously harm a person’s reputation if discovered. When me make disastrous mistakes, hurt the people we love, and fall short of our potential, our initial response is often to hang our head in disgrace, hide the evidence, and try to move on without anyone noticing.

We all make mistakes. I’m sure we all have events in our life that we wish we could go back in time to change. Perhaps a particular exchange of unkind words still haunts you. Maybe you stole something when you were down on your luck. What have you done? And have you worked up the courage yet to face it?

I have been thinking. What if, instead of tucking our darkest secrets in the deepest, furthest crevice of our home, we declared a truce and invited our skeletons out for a cup of tea? What of, instead of shaking with fright at the distant creaking, we offer our greatest failures a piggyback ride around the neighborhood? Check it out, everyone! I screwed up, and I’ve learned from it.

Shame disappears when exposed to the light. When we can admit that we made a mistake and apologize with sincerity, any sense of dishonor of embarrassment will begin to fizzle out. Sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.

At one point in my life, I was a full-time bully. And my only victim was my own self. Through yoga, meditation, and journaling, I gradually learned to ease up on myself just a bit. When stricken with chronic illness, I was forced to forgive myself entirely. I had no energy to function, let alone be consumed by negativity, so I chose to believe that at every point of failure, I had been doing the best that I could with what I had at the time. I think that holds true for all of us.

For the last several years, I have been quick to admit fault. Yes, I told a white lie. Yes, I ate the last slice of pie. Yes, I forgot to collect that signature. Yes, I’ve been an absent friend. Yes, I have made mistakes but, with you as my witness, it’s my intention to be better. It feels incredibly vulnerable. Yet, it feels deeply and profoundly freeing.

So, we’re driving around with this creaky skeleton in the trunk of the car. And now I realize, without the bandwidth for secrets, I’ve unknowingly been walking hand-in-hand with my skeletons for years now. It’s yet another gift bestowed upon me by illness: freedom from shame.