When I was little, oh about 4 or so, I dropped a spare window pane that sat on our back fence into the neighbors yard. I was testing my capacity at levitation. Alas, I was no Houdini, and the neighbors now had plenty of shards scattered throughout the yard.
I ran as fast as my size seven sandals could carry me, and tried to push the event out of my mind for the rest of the afternoon.
The next morning, sleep still clouding my eyes, dressed only in my daddy’s big white tee shirt (my bedtime garb up until the age of 8), I walked into the kitchen. I was questioned about the missing glass, and it’s mysterious removal and reappearance in my neighbors yard.
I cried with guilt, every inch of me showing. But I continued to deny my presence in the glass-over-fence incident, praying that it would just become untrue if I didn’t believe it hard enough.
I never admitted my guilt. But accepted a hug from my father, soothing words that it didn’t matter anyway, he just wanted to make sure the glass hadn’t grown legs and tried to end its own life. Needless to say, I never played with the neighbor girls again. Whether it was guilt or pride, I couldn’t bring myself into the presence of people who thought of me as a liar.
In sixth grade I found a tube of chapstick. Once the owner noticed it went missing and accused me of taking it, I denied it with my life. I didn’t speak with her for years. (It was really really nice chapstick… and I ended up throwing it away and then screaming “effing search me, bitch!”)
I’ve always been a liar. To strangers. To friends. To family. Usually it is to avoid conflict. My Libra brain and church-going upbringing somehow warped my adult mind into believing that it is actually better to make people happy than it is to be honest.
The fact is, I’m more honest with those I have a casual relationship than I am with those I am close to.
Will I ever stop lying? No. It just feels too good sometimes.