I have, for the most part, kept a fairly private life. I’ve shared what I’ve needed to share. I’ve switched skins in social groups. I’ve been who I needed to be in order to survive.

This lesson in self-preservation came early and often.

When I was teased relentlessly for not having a mom or dad, I learned how to make up stories to qualify their absence.

When I was raped at the age of 12 after the death of my only friend, my great-grandmother, and was whispered about in the neighborhood as the “slut” because who could ever believe that pre-teen boys were capable of such violation? I learned how to avoid the stares and fall into fantasy and daydreams.

When I went into high school and the rumors about my drug addict mom preceded me, I learned how to smile and joke and laugh because who could believe those rumors were true if I was just so goddamn happy all the time?

When I was a homeless teen runaway and I needed a place to stay, a meal to eat, some form of human kindness in general, I learned how to be charming to ensure another day of getting by.

When word got out that I was an escort and judgmental glares scorched my skin, “she’s a whore” being murmured behind my back, of course never to my face, I learned how to embrace that wickedness and use it as a weapon.

When women hated my existence and men lusted after me, I learned how to be cold and indifferent. Untouchable.

Time after time, each lesson another layer of armor against the world. I became an ever-changing chameleon. Carefree party girl for one, quiet and insightful confidante for another. Crazy but sane, logical yet irrational, emotional though apathetic – no one could ever give the same descriptors.

So now, more mutterings. More of the same peanut gallery gossip. I won’t deny the hearsay.  Though, everyone has their own version of the truth. While I am not innocent, I also carry the knowledge that not one person who speaks of me truly knows me. Or my heart. Where I’ve been. Where I decide to go. So, I’ll continue the same way I always have. Moving forward with my own brand of candor, nursing my pain and heartache alone as I always have. I am human. Fallible. Imperfect. Flawed.

But I’ll keep going.

Everyone’s your friend until they’re not.

In the end, we all die alone.