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Sanity Optional
Saturday, August 13, 2005

Lies

Sansanity talks about lying.

I just froze when I read her post. She was typing from inside my head.

I remember being young, 8, 9, 10, and having friends want to come over on the weekend. I'd lie and say that we were going to an aunt's house. It was so easy, no forethought, just out it would come. I'd keep friends away from my house for the most part, the school friends anyway, because then they didn't have to see my family. (Like the few that I invited to my eighth birthday party, who wanted to put me through the Paddy-Whack machine - where they stood with legs wide apart and you crawled through it while they gave you birthday paddy-whacks on the bum. I didn't want to play that and my mom started calling me names and what a suck I was and she sent me to my room with a spanking and all the kids got sent home. Yep. I'd really try hard to keep kids from school away from seeing my family). The kids I played with on the street had already grown up with my mom, so I couldn't hide her from them. So them, I found I was telling them stories about things I'd done at school, things that made them laugh, that made them talk to me, that made them like me.

I found I lied so much sometimes I wouldn't know I was lying until I was caught deep in it, unable to back out. It's kind of a scary feeling, looking around and realising that your "truth" is just a flimsy piece of gauze put up with thumb tacks and rips and falls on you like a net, smothering you.

I still lie.

I do it well.

I remember the interview at the hospital when I went in to emerg in September 2003. I told him what I had tried to do and the social worker kept asking me these questions in a soft monotone. Was I telling him the truth? Was I embellishing? Did I really feel that way?

That's part of the problem. What is it that I feel?

A lie helps shape my self into something recognisable. I can make me be like the people around me rather than the fucked-up me that I've always known myself to be. (hey, that rhymes, I was a poet and didn't know it, but my poems suck so who gives a fuck).

I remember the hypomania (or was it full fledged mania) I lived for years in my late teens and early twenties. Sleeping around was so easy because (1) I could lie to the guy I'd let pick me up, letting him make me out to be whatever flipped his flapjacks, and (2) I was such a prolific and talented liar that I never got caught. Only once was close and that's because FAR too much alcohol was involved and I was getting close to the end of my patience with my first marriage anyway, I think I was on some level almost wanting to be caught.

Lying, embellishment, telling tales.

I try to be honest here, blog-o-mine. I really do. Now, you're not going to believe me because I've just finished telling you what a good liar I am. But it's the truth. As far as I can remember, everything I've written in this blog has been truthful. And if I can't remember and I've stretched the truth a little, well, I hope it made both me and you feel better at the time.

Switching gears:

I'm still on the upswing. But this morning, driving Adam to his father's for the weekend, I was feeling fine and I'd have those lovely freeze frame slow motion car wrecks go through my mind as I was driving. Such as:

Driving along, happy as a clam (how happy are clams anyway....seems like a shitty life to me, but who am I to talk), and come round a country road curve. Car's coming towards me. Without thinking consciously about it, I can see the frame by frame picture of the head on crash. Coldly wondering how much it would hurt. Wondering how long it would take the air ambulance to get way the hell up there (my ex lives 45 minutes NW of Toronto, in a little town of about 2000 people, no highway access for 1/2 hr in any direction). It happened more than once on the drive home. Perfectly content driving home and these thoughts would insert themselves like PopTarts in a toaster. MMMMM Poptarts.

Then, another part of my mind says, hmmmm, thinking this way probably is an indication of something not being right.

Gee, ya think?

So, I got back into the city, drove to the car dealer's to get my oil changed (waaayy overdue), went for a 45 minute walk to kill some time, picked up the car (watching myself in the mirror behind the service clerk, thinkin' I look damn fahn this mohnin' -- it's phonetic, sound it out), drove home, mowed the lawn, made myself some homemade macaroni and cheese for lunch, Rob came home (he'd gone into work for a few hours), Rob had some kinky ideas in mind, we put them into action, now he's sleeping and I'm sitting in a bathrobe waiting for the load of laundry I've done to be finished so I can get dressed. I'm thinking of then going roller blading a bit. See how things go. But I would say that I'm definitely still on an upswing.

Yeah.

Up and down the driveway. Yeah.


Blogger moodymicello said...
A couple thoughts...I think:

-- When we are finally diagnosed bipolar we are relieved that someone has identified what it is in us that makes us so different and we become chamelonlike and fit into the symptoms sometimes. We
become the disorder but embellished.

--we are by nature more creative eand artistic than the non-bipolar person. Our tendency toward the dramatic, the grandiose, is part of the disease and lying naturally fits right in there.

--because we crave acceptance, we will do whatever it takes to win it...changing the facts, embellishing a story, bold-faced lies...whatever it takes for acceptance..

--if you have family that embarrassess you, you will go to great lengths to hide it. you have an immediate pulling in two directionss, a divided loyalty - one to family and one to survival.

In the end, lying is probably not that unusual in the bipolar world...I wouldn't bet that there are few of us who lie.....  

Blogger Manica said...
You are once again living my parallel life and thinking my thoughts.  

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