Lies We Tell Each Other

I’m a good writer because I’m judgmental and lonely.

Yes, those things go hand-in-hand for me.

I simply can’t be bothered to deal with people whose actions and words are consistently inconsistent.

For instance, when talking about kids: “They’re precious!”

An hour later: “What do you want right now? Mommy needs space Leave me alone.”

Wait - that’s me.

With other people it’s more subtle and also less legible than a woman who’s been imposed upon by tiny people needing things for their survival, their egos, and their sense of self.

Here are a few examples:

“No, I don’t care if he proposes,” except that she’s dying inside for acknowledgement that she is, in fact, special.

“If I had all the money in the world, I wouldn’t even buy luxury things,” except that she’s been sporting her tattered/frayed monogram-print LV forever rather than a nice, new, modest no-name brand.

“Of course this is extremely important and we take it all very seriously and will definitely present it,” except that they’ll forget in a week.

“I’m a good person, I’m just such an empath,” except that they ignore the homeless man with one leg, right outside their office when the weather starts to turn icy.

“I’m fine being single. It’s the men who have a problem,” except that she’s gone through countless breakups and won’t consider what they have in common.

The crazy-making thing is, I think these people believe the things they say.

So the biggest victim is themselves. I’d just rather not be collateral damage. Because inevitably, when I point something out it’s met with dismissiveness or downright anger. Sometimes even tears.

And I realized, while thinking of how to mend a relationship fence I actually care nothing about, that people don’t want you to actually see them.

They want to be understood according to the version of themselves they’re serving up for consumption.

The problem is, when an inter-personal relationship becomes a folie à deux, perpetuated on one side, accepted on the other, it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting to recall selectively. It’s exhausting to omit lies from the memory bank. And it’s exhausting to pretend to be blind.

So why do it?

I don’t anymore. Which brings me back to why I’m lonely.

Last week I was freaking out about a rude neighbor.

“Well - she has nothing better to do than obsess about small things. You and I don’t have the time or energy,” my sister-in-law said as we stood on the porch watching our kids play with said neighbor’s basketball hoop (the husband had granted permission).

“Yea,” I scoffed in agreement.

But the truth is, when she said that, it felt like my own personal rubber bullet, come to knock the wind out of me.

I wasn’t impervious to others’ judgement just because I preferred being alone. And I wasn’t any better. I was just more aware of the implications. Proximity means judgement, and I have never wanted to be seen with the macro lens precision that leaves little room for interpretation.

When I write, I control the lens. And I can macro the crap out of fictional characters without repercussion or the danger of that camera being turned back on me.

No wonder I’m now 58,000 words into my second manuscript which is about the way young people misunderstand themselves and therefore the assignment of life, which is, of course, self acceptance.

The funny thing is, the closer I get to finishing the more I realize this writing lays bare my own blindspots and perspective on things. It reveals more, and clearer than any person living outside my head ever could.

So in finding an escape from interaction that begets judgement, I’ve essentially keyed myself in to the most intimate form of it, self-judgement.