Liar, Liar

When I was ten years old I told our cleaning lady that our family trampoline was the first of it’s kind. Not only that, but it was hand woven by blind Belgian nuns.

Rumor had it that some had even died in the process.

Because at ten years old being interesting was better than being honest.

Every day I’d walk through the front door and roam the halls at school to the steady hum of lies.

We’d lie about everything.

Our hair colour, the places we’d been, what our parents did for a living.

We’d lie about our allergies, the things we owned, and our grades.

We’d lie about our first kisses, what we wanted to be when we grew up, and the dynamics that we went home to.

We’d lie about anything we could to make ourselves seem more interesting, because when you’re ten years old being interesting is better than being honest.

But then we got older.

We got older and realized that interesting is messy so instead we found new things to lie about.

We would still lie about our hair colour, our grades, and what our parents did for a living.

But we lied about other things too.

We started to lie about our height, our age, our weight. We’d smudge the numbers to get ourselves closer to an accepted standard.

We’d lie about how many hours of sleep we were getting a night, because eight sounded better than lying awake in the shadow of anxiety and self-doubt.

We’d lie about staying at work late for the money when really we just didn’t want to go home.

We’d lie about why he left. Why she left.

We’d lie and say we were just hitting the gym harder when really we were weighing everything we ate.

We’d lie about how many glasses we felt the need to combat a long hard day with.

We’d lie and say there were no photos from a certain time in our life because we were too busy living in the moment when we were really at war with our bodies.

We’d lie about why we left.

We’d lie about why we stopped talking to the people we were once so close to.

We’d lie about our happiness. Our sadness.

We'd lie and paint a picture of a perfect life and leave out stories regarding the fractures.

We’d lie about being fine.

We’d lie about anything we could to make ourselves seem normal, because when you’re an adult being normal is better than being messy.

Because interesting is messy and messy is lonely.

So we’d lie.

The thing that no one tells you is that when you’re ten years old lies come only at the expense of honesty, but when you’re an adult they also come at the expense of health.