I lie. All the time and I can’t control. Okay, that’s a lie. I can control it, but the truth is sometimes so much harder to explain. I’m getting better though. I don’t lie as much as I used to or to as many people as I used to. I don’t lie to my boyfriend, about the big stuff, or my best friend, Rory. I don’t lie about really important stuff. But then again, I can’t really differentiate the important from the okay-to-lie-about category.

I used to embrace my imperfection. I mean, it was something I flaunted. Like a medal on my chest, shining bright for the world to see. Then something in me shifted. We changed houses, my parents got divorced, and I hit puberty and had to become a mini mom. All in the course of 3 fast years. Now I am in high school with a boyfriend who would rather cut off his right arm with a chain saw {with NO aesthetic} than to see me upset. And a best friend who is always there for me, no matter what kind of mess I bring her.

I mean, I lie about little things. Like did I eat breakfast? Yes. Knowing good and well that an Eggo waffle made me nauseas so I threw it away. Or did I walk the dog? Yes. Knowing that I only let him out of the laundry room a few minutes before I was asked.

I don’t like lying and I don’t want to do it. I want to tell the truth. I want to say “No. I am NOT fine,” when someone tries to make conversation with me. But lying is easier than explaining why I have a single parent household {there is nothing wrong with that} and why I have to baby sit an 11 year boy and his two friends. Easier than explaining why some nights depression just hits me like a wave and I cry for hours on end for no earthly reason at all. And lying gets me a better response. Better than seeing pity or sympathy in someone’s eyes. Better than inviting someone to give me a hug, pat me on the back and say “It’s gonna be all right. You just gotta hold on a little while longer.” Better than having to say “ I am fine; really. I can handle it.” and see someone shake their heads in a way that means they are pretending to believe me.

I want to tell Rory and my boyfriend that no, this morning I did not brush my teeth or wash my hair, because today I just don’t flipping care. But that would get odd looks and whispers. Lying is now a lifestyle for me. A routine that I go through every morning. I keep journals of what happened each day. Only for the sole purpose of remembering what lie I told to what person. I want to tell the truth. Really I do. But telling the truth would mean letting people in past the surface and alarms go off when that happens. My subconscious sabotages relationships when I tell the truth. So you see, lying isn’t just a way of life for me, but also a way for me to protect others. Not to mention myself.