T is for Telling

I work with a girl who is 28 and single. She is starting to worry about dying alone, running out of time to have kids, and being lonely for the rest of her life. Her standards are, well, going down. She said she would take just about anybody right now, and this has been a recurring comment. I'm beginning to worry about her. Sometimes you just have to tell people what they need to hear. So I told her.
                         
I told her it's better to be lonely when you're alone than lonely when you are with someone. I told her Ex was a fantastic boyfriend and then tried to drown me on our first day as man and wife. And then he got mad at me and would barely speak to me for five days. ("P is for Pool") I told her he chased off all of my friends, although my best ones did come back after I reopened the door to them. I told her I wish I'd never met him. Writing this, I feel as if I told her too much.

I didn't tell her that I once spent a week living in my car because I was too scared to go home. I didn't tell her that there were many, many single nights when that happened, and I would creep home the next morning, only to find that Ex had ordered pizza. I didn't tell her that Ex raped me. I can't believe I just mentioned that again. ("N is for No") I didn't tell her that Ex abandoned his mother in a locked memory ward. I didn't tell her that we used to foster dogs until I realized Ex was hitting them. There are a lot of things I didn't tell her.
                          
Telling is why I write this blog. It helps to tell people what happened, but most of it is so shameful that I don't want people I know to know this stuff. I don't want pity. I want understanding. Oh, that explains why she flunked out of dental school. Twice. Oh, that explains why she will die alone. Oh, that explains why she slept on the floor for months and months even though she had two beds and a comfy couch. Oh, that explains why she was on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills for so long. Oh, that explains it...