I lied a lot as a child. Most do. It’s comical now to think of it; shoving snacks under my shirt while my mother was preoccupied and scrambling up the stairs for my “nap”. I was restless and did not want to sleep! I hid books under my bed and slid them out for a silent fiesta with magicians and Skittles. At the sound of footsteps I slid the contraband under my pillow, easily accessible for when the footsteps would surely fade away.
“Aww, look at my angel sleeping”. Horrified, I heard the door open. My mother’s hand crept ominously closer to my pillow as she bent down to kiss my head. My heart crumpled as her fingertips hit my hoard, tumbling candy out of bags, staining the last page I’d been reading. She was furious, of course. I was upset that I’d let myself get caught. A very self-centered existence. My lies grew larger until 8th grade, when they strangled me whole. I was no longer a child, I could not scramble out of this grave I had dug like I once scrambled up the steps.
Now I am committed to relentless honesty. I am terrified of lies more than any secret I could hold. When I am uncomfortable or confused or skeptical I say that I am. I over communicate and make sure that everyone is on the same page. At best, lies are an inefficiency, at worst they are the death of all human connection.