I Am A Pathological Liar
by Anonymous
This is a story I don’t want to tell. Even anonymously. Because I’m so, so embarrassed of the person I used to be.
And I’ve done so much work—hard, punishing, soul-baring work—to unlearn the bad “habits” I’d formed and the behaviors that used to be normal for me, and to self-destruct in the best possible way and build myself back up as a healthier, happier person. So why go digging into the past to deal with something that’s already DEALT with? What kind of dummy would do that?
Well, clearly, it’s not dealt with.
If I had a totally tranquil, monastic acceptance of what I’d done and truly moved on, I wouldn’t be here agonizing over the emotional toll of writing about it, examining it, and finding a meaningful sense of peace with it.
So, here’s the truth: I used to lie. A lot.
Like, A LOT.
Now, for some background—I am not the “serial killer” brand of malevolent liar you see in movies. I am empathetic and I try to be generous emotionally and financially whenever I can. I am the person who will catch and release bugs and rodents because I can’t bear the thought of not helping someone or something, let alone actively hurting someone or something.
And I’m telling you this as much as I’m telling myself this, and for the same reason: I want us to agree that I’m not a bad person, and that this one flaw of being a pathological liar doesn’t make me an evil person. But it is at the core of who I am. And it’s at the core of how I was raised and who raised me.
I didn’t just spring out of the dirt a fully-formed human with one fatal flaw given to me by my Creator. But I did inherit this propensity for mistruths from my (lowercase “c”) creator.
My mom is a compulsive liar, too.
I don’t know where hers comes from, to be honest. She had a super fucked-up childhood full of trauma and abuse, and the armchair psychologist in me thinks she’s trying to escape it by creating her own reality. And I just happened to be raised in and around that bizarre liminal space where I saw the truth, and I saw what she said was the truth, and just accepted the dissonance as, well, normal.
And yet part of me—and I think many of us who spend time around liars do this—questions how truthful the tales of her trauma are. She’s lied to my face about events that I was there for, how can I assume she’s a reliable narrator of her childhood? And really…does it matter? Does she need to have been through a traumatic childhood for her behavior to be, what, acceptable? It may not be her fault, but it is her responsibility. And it’s my responsibility to hold myself accountable for doing it, too. Not just for the sake of the people in my life, but for my own wholeness and wellbeing. Part of the work I’ve done on this has been acknowledging that I’m not just a product of a messy parent. And believe me, it took a hell of a situation to even get me to start doing that work.
Because there’s one lie in particular that I define my life around.
My whole life, I followed in my mom’s unstable footsteps and lied to explain away uncomfortable situations. I didn’t have the language to say “I am having a tough time and I need space.” I was too consumed with the idea of being perfect and not being the kind of person who needed help. Something dramatic was necessary to explain why I couldn’t be available and “on” all the time. (It’s amazing how the desire to be seen as perfect exposes how imperfect we are, isn’t it?) So whenever I needed what I now call a mental health day at work, I would just…not go to work. And then I would feel so ashamed of going off the grid, I would…not go again. And it would take a couple days of compounding my own misery before I would go back to work, tail between my legs, with a story about getting sick or an unavoidable emergency. And I’d get a slap on the wrist or a concerned “glad you’re okay, please let us know sooner,” and then it would just become dirty bathwater under the bridge.
And then…THE BIG ONE. It wasn’t a fib. It was a grotesque lie. I had a mental freak out and didn’t—couldn’t— go to work. And I didn’t—couldn’t?—just say that. So I stayed home. (For the record, I was miserable the entire time and didn’t —COULDN’T—enjoy my “time off” at all). When I was ready to go back, I borrowed from my own painful experience in the past and used an excuse I had at the ready.
This time, when confronted for an answer for why I went off the grid, I said I’d had an abortion that went wrong and I had been in the hospital.
“i said I’d had an abortion that went wrong and I had been in the hospital.”
I know. It’s disgusting. The truth is, I had had an abortion…the year before. And it was totally normal and routine. I found out I was pregnant very early, I swallowed two little pills, I got a horrendous period. And then I wasn’t pregnant anymore. No hospital visit, no emergency. Just…I guess, an excuse I could put in my pocket and use when it was convenient.
I hated writing those words just now. I hate that I ever thought that way. But my disastrous relationship with the truth is especially prevalent when it comes to health issues. Not to harp on my mom, but…guess who also has a fucked-up relationship with sickness? Funny how that happens. She has lied and exaggerated her way through countless diagnoses and emergencies. And she’s done it about me, too.
There are things I thought I knew about myself that are just lies that have been told to me. My medical history. Stories about my family. Stories about me. And as easy as it is to say “it’s not my fault, I learned it from her,” that doesn’t give me the power to say “ENOUGH.” So I have to own it. I have to acknowledge where it comes from, how I’ve adopted it and incorporated it into my own behavior. And honestly, I don’t want to blame my mom for this. I was a grown ass woman in a grown ass job, and I was using toxic behaviors I personally never had the courage to confront and unlearn. She lied about everything. And I chose, subconsciously or not, to do the same.
And the truth is…even now, I find myself wishing for the most severe diagnosis when I’m sick, because I still feel the need to have something dramatic to excuse my absences, personally and professionally. I was in the ER recently with two possible diagnoses, and if you can believe it…part of me was disappointed it was the more “easily treatable” of the two. I started feeling better after starting a new medication…and part of me felt disappointed that I was getting better because it meant my labs the next week wouldn’t have “interesting” results. And when I started getting sicker again and needed to get surgery, part of me was…not unhappy with that. I call it: Munchausen Light. (I only call it that to my therapist because I’ve never admitted this to anyone but her before). I’m not out here trying to make myself sick, but when I do get sick, you better believe I get something out of the attention that comes with it.
Gross!
Listen, when I do this, my first reaction is to say to myself YOU ARE SICK THIS IS NOT NORMAL DO BETTER. My second, more measured reaction is to do what my therapist taught me to do: acknowledge without judgment. To sit in the mess and allow myself to be aware, without trying to find a solution immediately and fix it away. Because the compulsion to fix it and dismiss it is tempting but extremely shortsighted. Instead, I pause and process my feelings. “I’m enjoying this. I like the attention that comes with being unwell. How interesting.” And I sit in those feelings and think about the type of pleasure it brings me, and continue to pull the thread and examine myself. It doesn’t make it go away. But it makes me aware of it.
Same with lying to my friends.
I used to have a hard time saying no. I was so afraid to disappoint people that I would defer and compound that disappointment by saying “yes” with no intention of following through. When asked to come to a party, or meet for dinner, or commit to anything that I couldn’t attend for whatever reason (scheduling conflict, social anxiety, etc.), I would just lie and say “sure!” John Mulaney has a great bit about how cancelling plans is like heroin. It’s true! But what this leaves out is the miserable, stomach-churning guilt of sitting in the cognitive dissonance of not wanting to let someone down, and knowing you’re about to. Let me make it clear. I never enjoyed lying. I enjoyed deferring the emotional work of flaking out or canceling plans, but it’s not like I just got to lightheartedly dance through life until I had to pull the bandage off. Every time I knew I was going to flake, my heart would wring its hands while my brain would try to push through the dread. And don’t get me started on what my guts would do. Stressbelly is real and stressarrhea is not your friend.
So back to The Big One.
It wasn’t until my extremely empathetic and impossible-to-hoodwink mastermind of a boss confronted me on my absence, had a hard talk with me about how unacceptable this was, and fired me, that I was able to enter the second phase of my life. For me, that period was full of confronting myself and my past and my upbringing and my Self, in the psychological sense. It was painful and terrifying and absolutely the best thing that ever happened to me.
I still talk to that boss of mine regularly. I am grateful she gave me the kick in the ass I needed to start this journey. And my gratitude continues because she continues to give me her grace and empathy and friendship on this journey. I wish everyone who struggles with the truth could experience a reckoning like mine. A demand to confront their flaw via a sympathetic external force who doesn’t make you feel like a monster…but is willing to tell you that your behavior is monstrous.
But as kind as they may be, they can’t do the work for you. It’s up to you to ask “But WHY am I engaging in this monstrous behavior in the first place?”
Brené Brown, queen of my heart and provider of life-changing (perhaps even life-saving) wisdom, speaks about shame fluently. Her books have been a lighthouse of truth and a beacon of what I want to be, after being at sea most of my life with no moral compass to guide my actions. She sums it up beautifully and gives me the language I needed to begin to understand my behavior:
I define shame as the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging – something we’ve experienced, done, or failed to do makes us unworthy of connection. I don’t believe shame is helpful or productive. In fact, I think shame is much more likely to be the source of destructive, hurtful behavior than the solution or cure. I think the fear of disconnection can make us dangerous.
“i don’t just lie when it’s convenient. I have the compulsion to lie, as a reflex as natural as breathing.”
I was so afraid of rejection or looking imperfect that I would lie to cover up my flaws, not realizing that the impulse to lie was my greatest flaw—the one constant that led to the downfall of every enterprise and intimate relationship I pursued. It made me, as Brené says, dangerous. I built a wall around the part of me I was ashamed of, and my relationships were half-hearted. It was dangerous to get close to me because it was a one-way street: I could never give as much as I took in terms of authenticity, honesty, and vulnerability.
And look, I know I’m not the only one who has lied to try to appear innocent. I’m not the only one who has felt backed into a corner and lacked the emotional maturity and sense of self to admit I fucked up or need help, so I just lied about it instead.
But the truth is…even here, in this safe space with you reading this and opening myself up to you, I haven’t even been entirely truthful here! I have, subconsciously but also intentionally, misled you.
By saying “the truth is,” it implies I am being 100% truthful, right? How many times in this have I written “the truth is” or “honestly” before opening up? But the “truth” is…I say that to pretend I’m being 100% truthful when I’m not. The truth is (do you believe me?), I don’t just lie when it’s convenient. I have the compulsion to lie, as a reflex as natural as breathing, for no reason at all.
I’ve lied about conversations and interactions that never really happened. I’ve lied about how extreme something was. I’ve lied about myself. And if you know me, I’ve probably lied about you, too.
And you know what? You want me to be honest with you? I started this very essay by lying to you. Go back to the top. I started this whole journey by saying “I used to lie. A lot.” That is a lie. Because there is no “used to.” Even that last paragraph feels like—no, IS—another manipulation of the truth. Because I’m distancing myself from those actions by saying “I’ve lied” about these things, instead of saying “I lie” about these things. The truth is (?), these actions are NOT only in the past. I am not wholly reformed, nor do I think I ever will be.
“i am and always will be a liar.”
I am and always will be a liar.
Maybe not someone who tells THE BIG ONE kind of lies anymore. But a manipulator of the truth, absolutely.
For me, my lying reflex feels a lot like my anxious thoughts. I will never get rid of them, but I can be more aware of them and how I feel, I can see the signs and right the ship sooner, rather than letting them take over and feeling like shit all the time. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop lying, or at least stop feeling the urge to do it. Sure, I do a better job fact-checking myself now. I will say something like “God, the produce went bad so fast this week, I had to throw away every freaking strawberry in that carton. Well, not really. I’m exaggerating. I threw away maybe half of them and froze the ones I could salvage.”
Harmless, right? The strawberries that made the cut aren’t sitting in my freezer demanding justice and acknowledgement that they are safely stored away for a smoothie someday. But it’s not about my anthropomorphized strawberries. It’s about my relationship with the truth and my compulsion to “plus it up.”
Take, for instance, the time I lied about a funny interaction with a neighbor. I have a veryyyy active imagination. I am very frequently imagining situations and conversations and what-ifs. and I will often “play make believe” in my head (and, if I’m being honest, sometimes out loud when I’m home alone or driving by myself).
(Listen, I know that this may be the last straw that makes you think “WHOA this chick is bananas” and peace out. That’s fair. Either you’re someone who pretends to be interviewed on late night talk shows while you sit on the toilet, or you aren’t.)
But with me, it can go too far.
“it makes me dangerous to be close to.”
I will take those pretend conversations, and recount them to people as if they actually happened. Again, it doesn’t overtly hurt anyone. No one knows I didn’t really talk to my neighbor about his weird ugly plant that looks like Audrey II. But it hurts my ability to have fully authentic, trustworthy relationships. It hurts my close friends and my family to have to subconsciously parse through what I say and the stories I tell and mine for the kernels of honesty like a prospector panning for gold. It makes me dangerous to be close to.
I live in fear of repeating my mother’s mistakes. I am all about “breaking the cycle.” It’s easy to own up to lying when your back’s against the wall. But I’m terrified that my own children will not be able to take my word as truth because I can’t squash this urge to lie and exaggerate when I don’t have a reason to.
Is it for no reason at all? Am I lying for clout? Am I lying to appear more interesting? Am I bored with reality? Is it an extension of the lie-filled childhood I had? Does that explain why I do it when it’s not just a defense mechanism against being judged or punished or seen, and it’s just for “fun”?
I don’t know. I have spent years in therapy, and I don’t have an answer for you or for myself. So, I treat it like an addiction.
The actor Eddie McClintock recently shared an experience on Twitter that was so revealing and honest and authentic that it shook me to my core. An excerpt about his attempt to pursue a new career, as someone with skeletons in his closet:
I was embarrassed. I was disappointed. And I was angry. “How short-sighted can they be?” I thought. “They disqualified me for things, many of which, I’d done 25 years ago!”
“I was honest!” “I’m sober!” “Fuck those assholes!”
…Then I got to thinking. I was honest? So what! I’m 19+ years sober? Big deal! Do I deserve a ribbon for being honest and a cake for being sober? No.
Do I need to live with and accept the consequences of my choices as a young man? Yes. Nobody owes me nuthin.’ And if I decide to stay sober and be honest in my life, then that’s on me. None of that “deserves” a congratulations.
And this is the truth. None of the work we do to become healthier, happier, stable people deserves an award. I don’t get a pretty little “CERTIFICATE OF COMPLETION” to hang on my wall of achievements. My relationship with the truth feels more like sobriety in that regard. You take it one day at a time, but you never stop treating it.
I don’t get a gold star for the work I’ve already done because the work will never be done. I will continue to take it one day at a time. I will continue to treat my compulsion to lie as something that I will push against every day for the rest of my life, in pursuit of an authentic life of love and self-awareness and connection.
It keeps me honest.
