One day, when I was about six, I remember hearing my mother and brother's laughing in the other room. I felt left out. And I was certain the entirety of my family was laughing at me.
I cried.
And then I got upset; 'they're stupid,' I thought. And then I held a grudge. I didn't know what was so funny, but I was sure it was because of me-- that it was something I did. That they were laughing at me.
Soon after, my Dad found me. He asked me what was wrong.
"Nothing," I said, even though it was clear I was mad.
"You're mad," he noticed immediately. "What happened?"
"No I'm not," I frowned. In my mind I thought; 'it's because you all hate me and were laughing at me. I don't want to talk to any of you.' But I didn't say that. I didn't say anything.
I was being a brat, but my Dad was pretty good about it.
He kneeled and looked me in the eye. "You need to always tell someone what's wrong," he said.
"Why?" I huffed.
"Because when something is wrong-- and you don't tell me what that is, how can we fix it?"
It made sense.
I blurted out, the way six year olds do, all the hurt and indignation that I had endured in the face of my family's mocking laughter.
He listened patiently.
And then he called my brothers over, and asked them what they were laughing about, a moment ago. I forget the details, but it had to do with something silly one of them had done. And it had nothing to do with me.
Suddenly, I felt kind of stupid.
"See?" My Dad said, "it was a misunderstanding."
Realization dawned on me; what I thought had occurred, had not.
It was a defining moment in my life. One I never forgot-- even though it was over twenty years ago now.
My Dad was kind when he said to me, "Do you see? If you had kept it all inside-- then you'd still be upset right now. Isn't that a waste of time?"
I knew immediately what he meant; I'd all ready been huffing and stomping for half an hour at least. I felt incredibly stupid about that, even though I was only six.
"Lets say what you thought had happened was right," he continued. "And they were laughing at you. You still need to tell them what you feel, because they're your brothers, and they love you, and they don't want to make you sad. They can't fix anything, if you don't tell them and hold a grudge." He lectured kindly. "And if you keep it all inside, not only does that hurt you, it's not fair to them, either."
"Why isn't it fair to them?" I said, "It's not their fault I'm mad."
"Because," he said, "they don't know what they did. And if they don't know what they did, they can't stop doing it. And if they can't stop doing it, they'll keep doing it, and make you sad again, every time."
I nodded.
He gave me a hug, and I went off to play.
I learned a lot that day.
I learned about honesty, and communication. I learned about not jumping to conclusions. I learned that the mind is its own worst enemy. And I learned that you should be honest with people you care about, if they've done something-- or even if you only think they have.
Because they can't fix it, if they don't know what they've done.
...
So is honesty the best policy?
Yes.
Not honesty with the intent to hurt, but honesty with the intent to heal. Honesty heals.
A long while ago, I offended one of my best female friends. We've known each other since grade four.
I don't remember what I did-- I think I missed her Birthday by accident. I sent her a belated greeting with an apology, but it didn't cut it. I sent another couple of messages, trying to get together. Suddenly, she started avoiding me. Giving me the cold shoulder. I didn't know what to do. It hurt. We'd been friends for fifteen years at least.
I tried to give her space. I told myself, 'well fuck her, if she doesn't want to be my friend, she can get bent.' But I cared about her; she was my friend. I didn't know what to do.
So one day, I said. "Look, you're my friend and I care about you. I don't want to lose your friendship. I'm sorry if I hurt you; I didn't mean to. But you're important to me, and will always be. I'm sorry for what I did and I hope we can still be friends.'
Suddenly, months of silence evaporated.
She replied; and she was honest with me. She told me, yes, she was offended I had missed her birthday. I said I was sorry. We reconciled. And we're still friends. And we're good friends. Because we know we can get through anything. I might only see her four times a year, but I know we'll be friends forever. We've known each other since I was twelve or so.
And had told me earlier, we could have fixed it earlier. Not spent months (at least six months) wallowing in mutual resentment thinking; "I can't believe that person! We were so close and they don't give a shit! Rah rah!"
Honesty heals.
Because if you're not honest with someone when you feel you are slighted, then how can you fix it?
.... I guess it depends whether you want to fix it.... or not.
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