I learned to lie in church.
To dull the edges, and talk around it.
To shrug off hurts, and justify wounds.
To minimize desires, and inflate aspirations.
To pretend things are better than they are.
To wash over sincere feelings with sincerely held beliefs.
It worked well for me – until it didn’t.
My dad called me one of the three best liars he’d ever met.
A friend questioned why I couldn’t be fully transparent with him.
Neither could see the ways they’d applauded my self-deception for years.
I couldn’t see it either.
There was a lot I couldn’t see. And a lot I couldn’t say.
***
I’m still learning to speak plainly about what I experience.
To use real words for real emotions.
To courageously name what is and what isn’t, what I see and what I don’t.
Of all the things they taught me, it’s been the hardest to unlearn.
My grandpa quit going to church before I was born.
And he always said to look out for people who’d “pat you on the back while pooping down you collar.”
Those facts don’t seem unrelated anymore.
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