I lie. Frequently.
Sometimes it's to get off work, or a therapy appointment. Sometimes it's to provide a catch-all excuse to have a day to myself. I lie to my parents because it keeps our relationship in balance. Have I lied to make a story more interesting? Yup. Have I lied, for no reason at all? Check. You name it, I've probably lied about it.
In his excellent novella 'Shopgirl,' Steve Martin relates main character Mirabelle's opinions on the nature of a lie thus: "First, it must be partially true. Second, it must make the hearer feel sorry for you, and third, it must be embarrassing to tell. It must be partially true to be believable. If you arouse sympathy you're much more likely to get what you want, and if it's embarrassing to tell, the less likely you are to be questioned." What do you think? Does this litmus test stand up to reality?
I raise this issue because I had to exorcise some of my lies - let's call them excuses, shall we? - to my psychiatrist, made to get out of appointments for several weeks, in therapy today. None of the lies - lies it is, then - I ever told my psych were ever partially true. They weren't embarrassing in nature, but I might've garnered his empathy had I told him what was really going on.
For several weeks now I've not been doing well. Morning brings with it a sense of heaviness, of fatigue. Everything - relationships with friends, family, doctors, phone book entries - seems ephemeral. It's like grabbing onto sand - why go to therapy when tomorrow my therapist could move to South Dakota? Why trust friends when they could turn on you? Why make the effort if the promise of its lack of reward feels so tangible?
I'll address each separately. I think often of the day when my therapist might move, or when my psych will retire. What on earth will I do then? The idea is frightening to the point of panic, which is why, my therapist pointed out, I skip appointments, because I am showing my fear as opposed to showing up and talking about it. Friendships often appear as though they will not stand the test of time. How can I trust an intimate bond with another person if they will leave? A friend once told me it was important to be good at making friends in New York, because people move away all the time. Not too great at that, I thought to myself at the time. It feels even more like a fact now.
Fine, let's say, to put it simply, I'm hung up on the eventualities of things. I want to be taken care of, is all - I know everyone wants that. And I simply want a rock-solid insurance policy that someone will be around to do that, departures of friends and therapists be damned.
For the last three days I've been listening to two songs continuously: "Scythian Empire" and "Spare-Ohs," by Andrew Bird. Neither has anything to do with depression or lying, ostensibly. But if you parse a bit - and I do; former English majors, unite! - "Scythian Empire' is a song which foretells of doom and destruction. The titular expanse of power is "thwarted by the Thracians," and a five-day forecast about the empire tells of "black tar rains and hellfire." "Spare-Ohs" is far easier to trace to lying: "It gets in their lungs as it floats through the air/It gets in the food that they buy and prepare/but nobody cares if it gets in their hair."
My lies are everywhere. They're in the lined, world-weary face of my psychiatrist, in the pages of my ratty journals. They are seared into the Internet, in the lines of short e-mails to bosses, and accessible in the texts of my cell phone's SIM card. At the end of the day, however, does anyone care but me? And the answer is inescapable, like the weight of any lie: No.
So, conclusions? Read 'Shopgirl.' Don't listen to Andrew Bird when you feel like shit. And the next time you see me, please know I'm doing my best not to hide from you. I'd say it isn't personal, but that would be a lie.
