As I sit in the room, with some that know me and a lot that don’t; I can’t believe how difficult it is for me to be intimate  (in-to-me-see).  And I realize, I still have intimacy issues.Prior to three years ago, I was a professional at putting on masks and living a life of illusion.  Enter support group #1 and real quick, I learned I’d have to open up and allow everyone to get to know the real me.  The real Shelley.Three years of doing this and I’ve believed I’m the real deal.  Authentic.  Vulnerable.  Real.Until today.And as I sat there trying to hide my sweaty arm pits  (wondering if it would be appropriate for me to pad my pits with Kleenex next time) and wondering if I was having tachycardia; I realized:  It’s still hard for me to allow people to see the real me.I’m almost envious of the gal two down from my right.  She obviously doesn’t have intimacy issues.  Talks about her husband’s past of porn.  Her past of sex and drugs.  It didn’t look difficult for her to share.  But for me, I want to hold on to it.  I want people to know me today and not my past.  I want to save it for later, because it’s a big deal!And the teacher looks at me.  Tries to dig me out of my hole.  And I appreciate it.  When I start to open up, it becomes easier and easier.And as the gal to my left starts to talk, I get tears in my eyes again.  I don’t remember what she said, but I remember telling myself, “Shelley, the tears mean something.”  It’s back to what breaks my heart.And before you know it, it’s prayer time.And I feel the heart beat again, the sweat starting to multiply.  And I say it:  I ask for prayers for what my heart is breaking for.  What I can’t seem to get out of my mind.  I want to go to Shot Gun Willy’s or any other strip club in Denver.  I’m not particular.   And I want to give one of the women more cash than what she would make doing her thing.  Give her the night off.  I don’t even know that we would need to talk for long.  I’d just want to tell her that she is worth more.  That she is loved.  And that a different life is waiting for her when she is ready.  No shame.  No judgement.  Who knows, maybe she loves what she does.  Or maybe she hates it.Either way, it feels like such redemption….for me.And freedom….for me.I don’t hate these women anymore.  They’re just like me.  Broken.  They’ve just chosen a different vice than I have.  I chose things that were acceptable in this world:  career, thinness, athleticism.  But take off the masks and I’m just as broken as they.And I question:  is this really for her?  Or is it for me?