Sunday, March 21, 2010

I lie.

I keep it to myself so you don't know how bad it really is. I don't want to hear the censure in your voice. It is all my fault after all. I know you would listen. I know you would even understand. Really, really understand. But I lie.

Because you would tell me to do all the things I know I should be doing. I know it already. And I'm not doing it. And it makes it all the worse to hear it from you too. I know. But I just can't. Or I won't.

Maybe we all have our own private addictions. At least once in each lifetime. Some people get the obvious ones: drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, any number of things. Other times it is less obvious, less dangerous (but not less damaging) like food, a behavior, a pattern, a person, an activity. We can't stop coming back time and again. Even when we know it is bad for us. Even when we know it is hurting us.

I know you know what I'm feeling. I know you've felt it before. But I lie.

And now the number of people I'm lying to grows. It makes me uncomfortable. I am used to being honest and transparent. I don't keep secrets. It feels like not breathing deep enough when  I stop speaking the things I keep thinking and thinking and thinking.

I have two versions of myself, the one I am around other people and the one I am when I am alone. Then I let my mind wander without making up reasons for my facial expressions. Then I can smile or brood or worry or laugh. But I'm spending more time play-acting. Think about other things to talk about. Think about other things to think about. Lie.

I'm saying all this now because the thing I miss the most about being honest and transparent is perspective. Telling other people about how I feel and what I'm experiencing allows me to get a different perspective on events. They tell me when I'm over-reacting. They tell me when I should be angrier than I am. They tell me I am exactly right. They tell me how they would feel. And it makes me feel better. But not when I lie.

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