u/TheHouseofTzzu

Oaklahomie , windy day sporting a hot U-Haul full of Miss S beautiful belongings . We are having a heck of a good time . Trying to to get home asap. Papa is driving listening to to the beach I’m listening to him sing we are fuckin exhausted dirty and stink stressed so broke and swinging out to get mama home . I watch him drive I get upset because he doesn’t let me drive . He’s so hot I love him so much . I wonder if he really knows . I never want to know another . He’s difficult like a little boy has tantrums get impatient and has steam shooting out of his ears like a cartoon character. He’s a manly man tough rugged but when I catch him looking at me he’s a sweetest of boy . Ice is hard not fair lots of chaos he’s raising three his heart is bigger then this earth and neighboring solar system . I’m not sure how this story luventure will end ? Maybe it will be infanate . We talk about everything but there is still so much mystery . His guarded parts his imperfections are what I admire most . I want to make love and make like and make music and make food and make a mess make a big fire make a life maybe in Nevada welll get hitched I want him to ask if he doesn’t ask me I’ll have to pretend not to feel disappointed or hurt . If he doesn’t ask . I’m practicing it now . I’ll update you Cracker Barrel .. still water have a great night

Truth is a strange thing.

We spend our whole lives bowing to it, chasing it, defending it, and sometimes hiding behind it. We say, I stand in my truth, as if truth is one solid thing everyone can hold the same way.

But hurt is a brilliant storyteller.

Two people can live through the exact same moment, stand in the exact same room, hear the exact same words, and leave with two separate truths. One person remembers the pain. The other remembers the betrayal. One remembers what was done. The other remembers how exposed they felt when it was spoken out loud.

And maybe both are telling the truth.

That is the part that makes it so hard.

I told my mother what happened with my brother. I told her the things that had broken my heart, the things I had carried, the things I could no longer pretend did not hurt me. It was not pretty. It was not soft. But it was true.

Still, I know he may feel betrayed by me. He may feel I painted him in the worst light. He may feel I took something private and made it unforgivable.

But I was hurt too.

And sometimes when you are hurt, you don’t tell the story from the middle. You tell it from the wound. You tell it from the place that is still shaking. You tell it because silence has become too heavy, because loving someone does not mean disappearing inside what they did to you.

I love my brother. That truth has never left.

But love does not erase pain. And truth does not always arrive gently.

So where does the truth stand when one person is trying to protect their own heart, and the other person feels condemned by the telling? Where does it stand when the same experience leaves one person feeling abandoned, and the other feeling accused?

Maybe truth is not always clean. Maybe it does not always set everyone free at the same time. Maybe sometimes the truth saves one person and wounds another.

And maybe standing in your truth does not mean you said everything perfectly.

Maybe it means you finally stopped carrying the whole story alone.