Over the course of my troubled life, I’ve developed coping mechaninly wrong—is lying. I lie all the time. I’m terrified to tell the truth, even when I’m not in trouble. I use lies to protect myself from things that aren’t always there. I’m not doing anything wrong, yet a lie slips out as easily as breath. It feels wrong. It feels stupid. Why not just tell it like it is? Where is the harm in saying I don’t feel all that great, or that something doesn’t interest me? Instead, I default to I’m fine, even great. Sometimes the truth is simply no, but I can’t bring myself to say it. I’m still afraid of some unknown force that will punish me for being honest.
Lying isn’t a choice for me; it’s a reflex—one learned young. I did what I thought I had to do to protect myself. My intention was never dishonesty. Lies became the armor I wore to stay safe in a warped world. Surviving my own real-life war taught me rules, and even though the danger is gone, my internal alarm is still blaring. I lie because some part of me expects punishment for feeling the way I do. I know I won’t become honest overnight, even with this awareness. I still feel the need to be brave, to appear strong and capable.
Learning how to survive in my new reality isn’t easy. I mess up constantly. But I’m aware now, and I’m doing my best to be honest for once in my life—even if my “best” currently looks like telling the truth with the enthusiasm of a hostage reading a prepared statement.
I’m learning to tell the truth now, even if it still feels like stepping into traffic and hoping the cars stop out of courtesy.
Still here, stepping into traffic one truth at a time,
K.
