Member-only story
When we lie to everyone, we lie to ourselves
I am not brave, but it’s a word that’s often thrown in my direction. I’m told being open about my mental health struggles, martial issues, and parenting shortfalls is refreshing, and maybe it is, but for me, it’s a necessity. For most of my life, I hid my true self and lied about my feelings, and it nearly destroyed me.
The first time I understood a white lie was around age six. My grandfather and his brother sat around the backyard fire pit, talking about a car auction we went to, when my great-aunt Helen joined us and asked how many apples we picked. My uncle responded, “Those apple trees were picked over, but I know a different spot with of good apples. We’ll go tomorrow.”
Later when I asked my grandpa why Uncle Louie lied, Grandpa said, “Ah, well, Louie was supposed to pick those apples, but we went to the car auction instead. As long as he gets the apples, it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. “And you don’t say a word. That’s between them.”
Eventually, I started to tell my own white lies — just little things like needing to do chores to avoid people. I believed white lies were a kindness we give others to protect them from unpleasantness or to prevent our own discomfort. They didn’t hurt anyone, I thought. In fact, they made things better.
