I am a liar. So, are you. In the words of famed TV doctor, Gregory House, “Everybody lies.” It’s the lies that we tell ourselves that I feel can be most harmful. I tell myself I am okay when I am not. It’s a coping mechanism to get me through the day. It’s a helpful, yet harmful lie. I tell myself I am okay in order to cope, but it also leaves me ignoring the problem. In the short run, that’s fine. I’ll lock the problem in the box. Unfortunately, the box is a Jack in the Box, and the crank is turning, sometimes fast. Other times, slow. Eventually, the problem will pop out when least expected.
I have depression. I have had it since I was about fourteen. Twenty-five long years of depression. Sometimes, I am okay. Other times, I am not. Depression is a disease of lies. I lie to myself to survive. I am fine. This is okay. I am unbothered. I lie to myself about how awful I am. I am the worst person to ever live. I am so fucked-up. I hate myself. Why am I alive? What’s the point? Lies. All of them. I know I am not perfect, but I am not a terrible person. I am human. I have made mistakes.
A couple of years ago when I was seeing a therapist, she told me, “You are a perfectionist. You always try to fix the emotion. You never let yourself sit in it.” I never considered myself a perfectionist until then. I overthink to the point of exhaustion. I dissect. I analyze every detail of every event. I want to understand. That is a lie. I don’t want to understand. I just don’t want to feel so shitty. If I focus on the why, then I remove focus from the emotion.
I lie to myself about situations involving those I am closest to. I tell myself what I want to be true, not what is. Gut instinct is an internal lie detector built within ourself. I fuck myself every time I don’t listen to my gut instinct. I listen to the lie I am telling myself, instead. I know better. I still do it. I am a victim of my own selective distortions. I can see what is true. I know better. I do it anyway. It is an act of desperation. I want something to be true, so it is. My mind makes it that way. I tell my gut to shut up. I don’t want to hear it. It doesn’t fit with my narrative. Again, it comes down to survival. If I allow myself to believe what I know to be true, I’ll feel bad. I don’t want to feel bad. I don’t want to stew in negative emotions.
Sometimes I lie about my motivations. Truth is, I do it because I want to. It feels good, it mutes the negative emotions. The lie is in the justification. It’s okay, Person X did this, or Person Y did that. If they can make me feel bad, then I can do this royally fucked up thing. Really, I just don’t want to feel shitty. I want to feel better. Yeah, Person X may have done something that hurt my feelings, I’ll use that as an excuse. Then I become racked with guilt, because the lies I have told myself, have put me here. I am not a shitty person. I am not vengeful. I agonize. I ache. I want to tell the truth. The truth hurts. Lies hurt. The truth sets you free. The lies keep you in a box. A jack in the box. Pop goes the weasel. The truth is going to come out anyway.