The diary of a pathological liar.
I’ve always been a phenomenal liar — a genius really.
I created stories out of nothing, which is probably how I ended up becoming a writer seeing as the lies were starting to get out of hand.
Once — In high school, my room mate and I were bonding over our lives and as I was sharing my story , I could feel that it sounded sleep-inducing.
So…
I started exaggerating some aspects, most of which I took too far, like the fact that I had an identical twin brother (I’m an only child).
Whenever someone asked about my father’s occupation, I created what I thought were exciting jobs for him.
Most times, he was a pilot, other times he was in the military and sometimes he was a pirate. (The man is a journalist).
I have multiple ‘cousins and sisters’ with whom there is no blood relation whatsoever because what even is DNA? Could you use it, in a sentence or tell me which language it originates from?.
My personal history boasts of big lies and small lies. Lies all the same. Most of which came from a need to fit in, to escape reality and as a habitual clutch in due time.
At present, the lying now wears a different skin. It has evolved into white lies that are conventionally accepted by the collective conscious.
It has also turned into deluding myself at alarming rates. Most times, my body and mind can barely tell the difference but my soul brings me back to the crux of the truth every single time, which is how we have arrived at this personal essay.
Granted — lying can be a trauma response or a veil to protect innocence and or one’s feelings but that does not miraculously turn it into a virtue.
The truth and how much of it should be shared remains complex, the concept of which we won’t dissect on a scientific basis.
It dawned on me a few weeks back that — I’m an intensely self aware person yet I don’t exactly do anything about whatever it is, I’m so aware of…in this case the pathology of my lies and their rampant effect on others and myself.
I am now tasked with a responsibility to hold myself accountable for this unhealthy behavior. I also understand the root of this problem — fear. A concept of which I’m still grappling with.
I have always been scared of myself, so I ran. I fled myself so much so that I disappeared…into nothing. My personhood lacked palpability.
I became a ghost. A shadow. An echo of unlived and imaginative lives. I abandoned myself, watched reruns from the terraces and stagnated in the past while spiraling at the prospect of the future.
I lied and lied until the mirror couldn’t recognize my eyes anymore. All the same I was scared. I still am.
I am terrified of my light. Of my own greatness and potential. I am commitment phobic, never finishing anything I start.
I am scared of love, of wealth and success. I’m terrified of snakes (that’s a valid one no?).
I am scared of the truth, death especially. I can’t fathom the concept of reality, it drowns me.
I am also terrified of peace — it disrupts my chaotic personhood and threatens me with boredom.
I am scared of healing because getting healthy requires work to be put in (I am lazy). The list goes on really.
At the end of the day, the world can feel too big and it’s okay to be scared. What isn’t okay…is letting fear turn me into a caricature of a life that isn’t mine because I’m scared. The show must go on.
If you read this far, thank you for staying. Let me know in the comments, what you terrified of and how you’re going to fight it.
