The pie chart

And I'm back, staring at the blogger screen with the TV on in the background.

I had a good meeting with Keesha today. She and I talked about the events in my life that have created the masks I wear. They are hard to remove.

I just want to be myself, but so many years of practicing otherwise has made it difficult to even remember who that is. I know that sounds really sad, but this isn't one of those posts. It's just a fact. I remember very vividly many times in my life when I consciously made the decision to mold myself into something that I thought others wanted. I even went to school to become a bullshit artist (ha, ha). And now, the only glimpses of that self that I know is authentic get shoved down because that side of me does not serve whatever goal I'm chasing at the moment.

I remember all of it: becoming acutely aware of how I was different from everyone else. It was all the little things. My name was short, my hair was short, I had glasses, I was stocky, I didn't play sports, my mom worked, I was Jewish... etc. I always remember wanting to be different people, thinking how awesome it would be if I only had this or that. I remember wanting to be blonde for a long time.

Then I started lying. I lied about little things and big things, just to escape from being who I was. I once told a girl I went to camp with that I had a huge mansion. Each room had a different theme. I can even picture one of the rooms in my head--it's the image I would conjure up when I was telling her about how awesome my house was. When camp was over, I really wanted to be friends with her, but I couldn't call because I didn't want her to know that I lied. I made up injuries (I don't really remember why that was so attractive). I told my new best friend in 3rd grade that I was from New York, but my dad was a secret agent of some sort and we needed to conceal our identities.

I was never kicked in the knee by a horse. That, I think, is the only one I'm still keeping up. There were so many people in my life, like a chain, that I told that one to. In order to keep up the charade, I just had to keep telling people. The actual need to lie about stuff like that disappeared a long time ago; it's now just about hiding my secret that I lied so much.

I feel terrible about it, and that's the other side of this coin. I hate myself for doing it. I even remember feeling that way then, but not being able to stop because hating myself for lying made me hate myself for being different more than ever. That feeling has not left. The reasons have matured, but the feeling is the same. Now, instead of creating grand, false realities, I tell fibs about little things just to start conversations or feel secure that I belong talking to the person I am conversing with.

I think that comes more from not being able to tap in to my authenticity then it does wanting to lie.

Wow, that felt kinda good. Publish.