The Art of Lying

I have discovered that the one person that I perpetually lie to is myself. 

I didn’t realize this until I was seventeen. 

A lie: “Yes, mom. I ate breakfast before school. Promise.” 

Another lie: “I am fine. You are fine.” I told myself in the bathroom mirror. It became very apparent that my body weight was rapidly making its way down to zero. Very apparent to everyone except for me. I didn’t know it was that bad. That I looked that bad. I knew of the issues inside of my head, that took up all the space in my mind, and they were whispering throughout my body. To my bones, my skin, my muscles. My thin thighs were crying for help. A cry that I didn’t know I needed to voice. Even more lies: “I’m not hungry.” 

My mom would check my lunchbox every day before school to make sure it was full of food that I would eat. She’d unzip the purple bag when I got home, expecting to see only a melted ice pack sitting at the bottom. Most days, seventy-five percent of my lunch found its way into a trashcan. Or stuffed into the bottom of my locker. Or thrown into the pocket of my backpack.  

She’d make me a different dinner than that of my family, to ensure that I liked it enough to clear my plate. She’d call me downstairs to eat, asking me if I was hungry. I’d usually say yes, assuring her that I was ready to eat my dinner. A lie. Except it wasn’t a lie to tell her I wasn’t hungry. That my body was hungry, but my mind rejected the truth of it for a lie. When my body started to tremble from the lack of food, I would tell myself that I was too tired to eat. Too busy. A lie. 

At eighteen, I hid my mind from the world. I sat in my bathroom on the cool tile, the door locked and the lights off. I stayed there for hours. I was curled up, leaning against the cabinets that held my childhood bath toys. I felt numb. I remember asking God to take me away. I asked Him to make everything stop, to make me feel okay again. Despite those instances, I dug my heels into the thought that I was mentally ill. A lie. How could someone so blessed in life feel so badly about that very life? That’s right. She couldn’t. A lie. 

I was nineteen, standing on the curb of West Cleveland Avenue for the last time. It was an early January afternoon, the streets were covered in snow, the air so cold that it took my breath away. My coat was zipped and buttoned, my hat and gloves were not heavy enough to warm my pale and lifeless skin. My bright red face contrasted with the grey day and my tears about to spill over. I had spent the morning spiraling into a panic attack, not ready for what I knew was coming in a few short hours. 

My two shaking hands successfully unlocked my car and turned the key in the ignition. The radio was silent, refusing to offer any form of distraction or noise to quiet my mind. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I glanced up at him for one last time. 

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Another lie. 

I knew I wouldn’t see him again, even if it wasn’t my choice. I knew that was the last time I would park outside of his house; the last time I would tell him that I loved him. 

When I’m twenty my grandfather dies. A lie: I need to be strong, stronger than anyone else at the funeral. It took twenty years of life to see my dad cry. If my dad cries, that means he needs me to be strong, right? All day, I told myself that I was okay. A lie. It wasn’t a big deal. A lie. This does not affect me. A lie. I am strong enough to not be moved by death. A lie. I am above this. A lie. 

I didn’t let myself break until I was sitting in my car. I sat in silence, no heat on. The dark October sky rained. I took my black heels off and propped my feet up on my seat. My dress was too tight. My sweater was suffocating. My tights were itchy. I sobbed. I cried for an hour in my idle car. I wished my dad was there so we could comfort each other. That’s the truth. But I couldn’t tell the truth. 

Again, at twenty-one: more lies. 

“No, it’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.” I told my sister-in-law after she made what she thought was a joke. A lie. I continued to eat dinner, sip at my water, but was now reserved from the meal. I sat in my own thoughts while surrounded by my family, attempting to put on my active listening face and not seem so sensitive. I’ve always had trouble getting along with people who hold strong personalities on top of their heads like a crown. People who cannot be wrong, people who feel the need to voice their opinion on every tiny matter. But no, it didn’t bother me. Her joke against my religion and my school didn’t bother me. Her joke against the way I choose to live my life. Her joke against how her husband was raised, how I was raised. A lie. 

I am still wrestling with the fact that I choose to lie to myself. I purposely choose to be okay with things that any other person would not settle on. I am officially admitting that I have a problem with letting myself see the truth when I am so focused on a particular outcome. How else will I survive in this world? How else will I make it through a life so full of hurdles? A life so heavy with the weight of my own sensitivity? So, it’s okay. And I am okay too. I choose to perpetually lie to myself. I hope that one day, I will choose to break this habit of mine. Choose to tell myself the truth.