There are things about this disease (I have often talked about it) that baffle me. I don’t know if they are a side effect or a characteristic of the disease. Is it caused by the disease, or if you took the disease away, would it still be present in my life? I don’t like blaming things on my disease because it seems like an easy cop-out, but I would rather believe that those negative details of my life are in fact, the disease then my true personality. I don’t want to be a horrible person, but I also don’t want to allow the horrible of my personality free rein just because of the disease.
I lie. Baby, I lie. I tell whopper of stories that even knowing I am doing it, I wonder why. Is my life not exciting enough? Do I want the attention? The sympathy vote? What in my life makes it okay to create stories out of thin air rather than dealing with the morbid details of my life? What part of me needs the excitement that I can not get in the real world?
I know that I lie more often when I am down, than when I am up. But this could be because when I am up my life seems more exciting. I know I don’t tell simple lies, but rather elaborate stories that have details, multiple people and multiple events, and plots that deserve to be in the most recognized book rather than coming out of my mouth. And I am good at it. I am good at weaving stories so that people believe what I am saying. I am good at making people feel like they know the intimate details of my life when in fact they only know the stories that I have told.
I promised my husband long time ago, that I wouldn’t do this anymore. And I have been doing well with this. I have been consciously making do with the reality of my life, and simply not telling anyone anything. Except for today. Today I told a whopper and the feeling felt so familiar, and so comforting in that familiarity. It felt like a place I knew. (There was the typical guilt I felt knowing I was deceiving a group of people who didn’t deserve it, and in fact, shouldn’t be lied to. But those feelings are easily ignored in my belief that they will never know).
I don’t know why I lie; there isn’t what I call joy in it. Simply a feeling of avoidance of the real story. I don’t have to talk about my real feelings, or my real thoughts; rather I can hide away behind the ridiculous, and the made up. And while I don’t find humor in it, or even happiness in it, there is almost this crazy need to do it. A compelling desire to create the most elaborate and false story that I can.
I am not proud of this, in fact, it is one of those things in life that make me ashamed. I would rather be able to keep my promises to my husband, I would rather be satisfied in my life. Maybe, maybe this time I can remember all the things I do have, and simply not speak a word either way. Hide the details of my life from everyone so that I am not tempted to hide the real me from the false. Not saying anything is better than lying, at least in theory.