I Chose Poorly. I Chose Better. I Choose Freedom. I Choose Truth. Like, Nobody's Watching

It was a Tuesday. It’s almost always a Tuesday.

Way after midnight and nowhere close to dawn. I lay in that pitch stillness, my wife’s breathing rumbling next to me. In that quiet, my thoughts meandered to a hot September night under the Friday night lights of my high school.

The sticky air lay heavy, as only a September night could. A pungent mix of hot dogs, grass (both kinds), and Old Spice pressed into my nostrils.

The student section was raucous. Bodies roiled and screamed at the action on the field. I didn’t mind the crowd because it meant my girlfriend sat pressed up next to me. If one of the nuns was around, she would have smacked me to allow room for the Holy Spirit between us.

My head swam in the September heat, the exhilaration, and her.

The noise faded. I heard her breathe. Or saw it. And right there, in the middle of that crowd…

I’ll spare you the gory details. I will say this. My hand still hurt the following Tuesday.

That was in 1978. Forty-eight years ago.

Lying in the dark, my chest tightened, like it just happened. I hung my head, my face flooding with shame. I groaned. My wife stirred.

I hid in the dark. Or tried to. I failed.

The specifics of what happened are written in my body. As I lay there, replaying the scene over and over, a wee inkling of a thought poked up its tiny head. A foal of a thought trying to stand for the first time, stubborn but weak. I watched it grow in strength and confidence, until I blurted it out loud.

“I’m the only one thinking about this. No one remembers. No one cares.”

Yeah. Tell that to my gut.

I have no way of knowing if this is true or not. That no one remembers or cares. I think it probable though.

How often do we think of other people? I think of my wife while I sip my coffee, run errands, and work next to her in our home office. How can I not? My adult children, every few days. My friends, about the same.

All told, in a week, I think of everyone else about as often as I think of mowing my lawn. From time to time. Or when I need to.

I can list former friends and peers who were once ,vital players in my life. And I think about them almost…never. My only comfort is even if they think of me twice as much as I of them, it ain’t much.

Why does this matter?

Because in my head there’s a crowd of people who’ve set up their courtroom and stand ready to convict. They are ferocious and cruel. They question my ambition and wrinkle their noses at my ideas.

Some of their voices are my past. As are their faces. Some are clear. Most are not.

But the judge, prosecutor, and jury only live in my head. Well, they might very well live in your head too.

But out here, no one is emailing me. Or knocking at my door. I’ve not been served or had a stranger standing in front of my house, staring.

They’re not thinking of me. Or you.

There are no chains. There is no court. No jury. No prosecutor standing over us, listing our faults and sins.

Nobody is watching.

We perform for an empty audience. We sit chained, unable to move, bound by judgment, sarcasm, cruelty, and laughter. Or indifference.

We are not the defendant in our lives.

Our accusers, judges, and jurors are not there. That crowd of not real people in our heads. They’re fake. Illusions. The chains are our idea of their opinions of us. What they think of us might be real. But the chains in our head were forged by our hands, replaying events until the memories conformed to our beliefs.

There are no chains. Which means we are bound only by our ideas.

This is where you start cussing me for this hoodoo bullshit. “My hurts are real. They actually SAID those things!”

I believe you.

My high school girlfriend didn’t hurt me. Well, she did, but in self-defense. I am certain she doesn’t remember what happened forty-eight years ago. And if she does, she’s not groaning in the middle of the night over the memories.

And the people that hurt us? The ones whose voices live in our heads? They’re living their lives. They might be thinking about how to make their next victim suffer. I doubt it though. Probably more like supper. Or work. Or remember to pay the water bill.

And there’s an injustice to that, isn’t there?

Their voices keep messing with us and they carry on. So locking things down and remembering what they did is the only way we can be sure they pay. We’ve got the receipts.

The only person suffering is the one clutching the receipts.

So how do we silence the noise? The radical action here? What if we stop acting the prosecutor of our lives? Lay aside the demand for justice. Put it down. Let it go. How about…forgive them?

I yelled and cussed when my counselor suggested this. My father left when I was five. The hurt was real. He left and never came back. I get it.

Forgiveness isn’t for them. The people who hurt us. It’s for you. Release them and leave it for God, the universe, or karma to take care of the justice part.

What’s left after that? Freedom.

Freedom from actual shame. Or imagined shame. Freedom from the judgment and ridicule from people that aren’t there. Freedom to live.

But if no one is thinking of me, do I matter?

That’s a question asking for validation from the crowd. If we look outside of ourselves, we may find it lacking. Or wrapped with conditions.

And we’re not going back to ask voices that aren’t there. They’re horrible jurors or judges. There is one who can answer the question.

Imagine a four-way stop. There’s one in the middle of our quiet neighborhood. At 2:12 am, if you roll up to the stop sign, you’re going to be the only person at the intersection.

No one is watching. You have total freedom. You look both ways and straight ahead at the dark roads.

Do you stop?

If you roll through, no one gets hurt. No one sees. And you get home a little faster.

If you stop, no one gets hurt. No one sees. And it takes you longer to get home.

What’s the difference?

You stop because it’s right. Integrity doesn’t need an audience.

Who cares if no one is watching you. You don’t lower the bar because the seats are empty. The most important audience was always there. Is there.

You. You’re never alone in the room.

No one is watching. Except you. You are always in the room.

You stop at the empty four-way stop at 2:12 in the morning because you see. Because your body tallies the score. You can’t hide from yourself as scorekeeper.

Is this just “stop caring” with extra steps? After all, we can’t separate ourselves from our employers, friends, or family. This is not a “let them” move. This is living with the full responsibility that freedom demands. It’s a higher standard, not lower.

You’re the one watching, keeping score. Which means you own the choice. You get to wrestle with your choices and their outcomes. And what you choose is the measure. Because whatever you choose, you own.

Can you live with that?