According to our hair stylist, my grandma and I resemble each other.

I got my haircut yesterday. All the split ends are chopped off. We both have short hair now.

My grandma lives with us now because of my grandpa’s anger.

My parents decided she couldn’t live in that house anymore. I think I was always worried about her.

When I lived with them in my final semester of college I was caught in more than a few one-sided arguments. I did my best to diffuse them every night over dinner.

I had never told anyone that I used to think my boyfriend and I were just like my grandparents. They both loved him.

I was usually only his verbal punching bag in private. No one at that dinner table - the four of us - would have understand the problem.

Two men who make messes and two women who walk behind them to clean up. Denial is a full-time job.

Two women meet in secret, covered in scrapes and bruises, to patch each other up. And we apologize to our friends for the behavior of the men we’re with.

We had to tell lies about them.

"He's not that bad - I'm actually the problem" or "I was the one who started it"

It's easy to tell lies when you don't have to make them up yourself. I was fed these words. I was just his parrot.

My grandma said she was scared of him. My mom had to explain to both of us that this isn’t normal. How she’s never been afraid of my dad.

I know what it feels like to be scared, to stay up all night in fear, to be yelled at for not coming to bed.

I learned how to make myself cry until he apologized because that was the one time he held me.

60 years is so much longer than 5. It’s hard to swim to the surface when you’re drowning in water that’s deeper.

The sunk cost fallacy. I know it too well. I’ve done this long enough not to waste it. I can fix his mistakes. I can look past them. I am a bitch and it is my fault. I’m worthless, I’m useless, and he’s perfect because he once was. I can change it, I can fix him - it became my mantra.

I became tiny, so he could fill up the space, so he could be loud. Until my voice completely disappeared and I could no longer speak his lies at all.

The snipping sound of the hair-cutting shears is crisp like the air in October. I watch the damaged hair fall like dead leaves. I smile at myself in the mirror.

I am just like my grandma and we both have new haircuts.

"If you don't have somethin' nice to say, don't say nuthin' at all," Thumper says in the movie Bambi. It's her first lesson in how to lie. More soon follow.

"Turn that frown upside-down."

"You're prettier when you smile."

"Why can't you just be normal?"

"Fake it 'til you make it."

It's not surprising that she doesn't know the difference between the truth and the mask. If she wears the mask long enough it adheres to her face and she becomes the mask. Or so she tells herself. She is beautiful, she is smart. She belongs in the world.

She lies, she lies, she lies.

She's built an entire home based on her lies. Carved out a hole and filled it with a foundation of lies of omission, lies of convenience, lies of protection. Tiny fibs fill in the cracks around large whoppers.

"I can do this."

"I love him."

"I don't mind."

"I'm a good person."

"It won't hurt."

Timber by timber, the carefully crafted lies stack neatly around the empty space of her identity. Held together by the glue of repetition, and the nails of society's expectations.

With purposefully revealed windows of truths, she pretends to let in the light, but the house is a void nothing can fill.

Her closet is full of masks, one for each occasion, for each group of friends. A special one for the family she has left, an angelic countenance that shows no trauma. She tells herself her pants on fire are really just the new hot pants.

In the garden, she tends to elaborate lies. Vines cultivated in the harsh sun and watered under the clouds of ominous positivity. The fruits of the vine feed her lies, and they grow bigger and bigger, and you don't even know what tree she was to begin with.

It's a pretty lie for sure. And I think if I could peel through each colorful, icy layer, I would find underneath a beating heart, warm and true. Surely I love her for all that she is. But that is a lie, because she is me, and this whole story is a lie. Maybe.

I love myself.

I love how I look.

I love how I feel.

I love how I am.

I just love myself.

And I love telling myself all of this.

But then things change.

Everything I say is a lie.

Keep that it mind.

Read it again.

Me.

Yes me.

I lie to myself everyday.

And despite that, I love myself.

It's a strange addiction I have.

Lying over and over it soothes something in me.

Something that I can not put into words.

But I love myself.

My god I love the liar in me.

Someone I had known for a very long time used to lie to me all the time. Repeatedly, she would tell me things she thought I longed – or needed - to hear instead of things I knew in the heart of me to be true.

Over the long span of years, I chose to listen to her tall tales, believing each word or story she wove verbatim. It seemed much easier to do so. I mean, I didn’t gravitate to confrontation, and I knew that confronting my lifelong friend would result in a major, divisive argument that could potentially damage our relationship – and my sanity. Facing reality, or the truth in this case, was a difficult road upon which I did not wish to tread.

Then, one day, things changed and my desires for something more lasting and worthwhile took root. Through the years, my friend and I had not only grown close, we’d also grown much older, going through many trials and tribulations. A climatic, life changing event occurred and took precedence in my existence, giving a new borne determination to right the wrongs and pursue an unblemished future. Becoming a parent meant that I must be more earnest, truthful, and motivated in steering the life that had been gifted to me in the form of a beautiful baby girl. It also meant that I must confront my closest and oldest friend about her lies. It meant I must confront myself and learn to love myself in order to be the best parent – and person – I could be for this little life entrusted to me.

Yes, it was me that I chose to love despite the lies I’d told myself for so long, and in doing so, I became free of the revolving lies that filled my life. My lies were mostly about myself, but they also hid truths about my spouse, friends, and other components of my life. We lie to ourselves for a multitude of reasons, but for me, it had become a cringe worthy habit of not facing the truth. I’d made a habit of painting brightly colored pictures, including self-portraits, in lieu of seeking the muted colors that lay hidden beneath the colorful palettes. In doing so, I learned that the truths derived in the muted colors could be just as beautiful and rewarding as the brightly hued lies I'd told myself for so many years.

So, in the year following the birth of my first child, I made a promise to myself: I would no longer hide behind the lies. Instead, I would learn to love myself and appreciate the qualities with which I’d been gifted and work hard to improve upon the faults that lay within my depths. I would also strive to accept the fact that people were not perfect, but I could still love them, shortcomings and all. This I would do, not only for my child, but more importantly for myself.

It’s been more than thirty years since that enlightening epiphany. No longer lying to myself has brought a depth of growth, change, expansion, and fulfillment to my life. The world is now much more welcoming, challenging, and rewarding.

Yes, it was me: I was the liar I chose to love. Learning to love myself has brought a wealth of knowledge and contentment, opening doors that I never dreamt existed. It is the catalyst of a well driven, purposeful life and breathes existence into an otherwise dismal world. It is a replenishing gift that I gave myself, and I am thankful for it each and every day.

She aches for the truth. It springs somewhere between her lungs and diaphragm; she can feel it all the day long as she walks. But since falsehood clouds in her head and pounds in her chest, it reaches her tongue before the truth can. As soon as a lie escapes, disappointment flashes across her face, if only for a moment. Her stomach constricts but she cannot stop to worry; she must hurry to saturate her bitter words with her gentle, false sweetness.

She is disappointed in herself for being the sower of deceit, knowing that truth is fertile ground. She tries with all her might to remember, for she is a healer and she is a redeemer. She must not forget. However sugary her intentions, her speech is desperately wicked every time she forgets. The world is a breeding ground for hurt, and every lie results in harm to the innocent. And so she fights to remember daily: losing frequently, but trying wildly.

There are

Marks that define

each Species

Like camouflage of chameleons and moths

Like symbiosis of birds and rhinoceros

Like loyalty of eagles and pack dogs

Like teamwork of herds and flocks

And then

There's us

characterized best

by the lies

we tell ourselves...

10.25.2023

a liar you chose to love @Plexiglassfruit

You lie on a bed of it,

your grin fastened to your neck with cheap gauze

and whatever else was on sale;

close, comfortable.

You lie for your little brothers,

for your extremities and

for nothing at all.

You lie because you know I will catch you.

Because you know I already have;

from before your neurons curled

infant fists around the mere whisper of a notion.

You lie,

You confront yourself in the black of a loading laptop

in a third world internet cafe; the heat like a hug.

You lie.

You confess your sins to the screen.

You claim to forgive yourself; in verse like a hug.

You lie about that too.

I don’t know if you’d call him a liar, but there are times when I listen to the things he says, and I can’t help but wonder.

My husband certainly doesn’t have a history of lying, at least as far as I’m aware. None of his lifelong friends or close family members have ever accused him of doing so. He is a man of his word and doesn’t shy away from the truth. He tells it like it is, and I’ve always appreciated him for that.

And yet . . .

How can I believe him when he tells me things that I know aren’t true?

How can I look in the mirror at this overweight body and acne-scar-riddled face and believe him when he tells me I’m gorgeous?

How can I trust him when he tells me I’m one of the smartest people he knows when I struggle to keep up with his strategic and problem-solving mind?

How can he be telling the truth when he calls me kind, caring, and selfless when I know just how selfish I can be?

How can I reconcile the person I know myself to be with his descriptions of me?

The truth is, I can’t.

No matter how many times he tells me how beautiful, intelligent, or wonderful I am, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see it. I don’t think I’ll ever believe it.

Is it lying if the person telling the lie believes it wholeheartedly?

After almost fifteen years together, it’s clear he isn’t going to change his mind. Whether in spite of the way he looks at me or because of it, I’m not sure, but I do love him. I guess I can live with the lies.

“You would have saved me?” I ask, my shoulders pulled hesitant. Scared, like an over-beaten animal, caged again, although my words are pleading like a loving lapping tongue.

“I would have died trying.” She says.

I taste the sugar on my lips, cold. Like cough medicine- nurturing but not numbing. So I take to nursing my wounds in a desert wine I could rummage from the cabinets, while the music in my headphones deafens- I beg, at least, that it kills whatever cells house your touch, taste, smell..

"I will do better. I promise." "I am in therapy for you." "Give me a chance.'

I offered the chance to my phone, that you never called. That you left me waiting for weeks on. That you chastised me upon. Yet, you beg. And when I do indulge- when I do love you, there is something missing. On the tip of my tongue. Perhaps the solid foundation, or your genuine interest. It is dulled sometimes, by the desert wine or a bad day when I seek you out. You promise to visit, though you will pretend you don't know me the following day. You make me a playlist, although it is not songs I enjoy.

You want me without reason. Without knowing me. Because you are lonely. And when you asked, would I save you.

I answered in truth.