"Liar, Liar" - Prose

When I seventeen years old my psychology teacher handed out a survey to

the class. It had only about twenty questions and was fairly simple, mark an “X” on

the spectrum, “strongly agree”, “neutral”, “strongly disagree”. The questions were

easy too; we had just begun a topic of self-evaluation, how people view themselves

and why do they think this way. I’d really enjoyed the lecture even if the science of

the brain still went over my head. The whole thing lasted about twenty minutes

in total and when my teacher glanced at my paper, after going down the rows of

desk collecting them, he squinted.

“You wouldn’t say you’re honest?” he’d chuckled. Mr. Brennan was tall and

young - one of the newer teachers that high school kids felt close enough to speak

casually with, even rib on a little.

“Nope,” I’d replied. I’d smiled, of course, and he moved on shaking his head

like we were both in on the joke.

But it wasn’t one, not really.

When I was a kid I lied all the time. I’d lie to my parents, to get out of trouble,

I’d lie to my teachers about misplaced homework and books, I’d even lie to my

friends. And clearly, these were never sinister. Lying wasn’t something I did because

I was a particularly mean first grader, but rather an imaginative one. I was a story

teller back in the day. Half the time I never even thought about it. Lies would roll off

my tongue without a second thought.

When my friends asked what my dad did for work it was way cooler to say

that he was a retired astronaut, long since returned from his expeditions to spend

more time with his family and collect antique guns, than to say he worked for the

MTA. My days were head and shoulders cooler than everyone else’s and I knew it; I

saw horror movies that didn’t exist by myself when I was eight, before anyone else

did. I’d confidently tell my family at the dinner table the plot, describing

relationships and climaxes, never even stopping to think that they all knew none of

the things I were saying were true.

Sometimes, I think I must have believed them. One thing my psychology class

taught me was that the brain has a tricky way of forging memories from nothing,

building them slowly, but so solidly in your head that what was once a lie is now

fact. We tell ourselves the same lie over and over, until we know beyond a shadow of

a doubt that, yes that happened, of course my dad went to space.

Our brain realistically should not remember events that happened when we

were five, but when I close my eyes I can still see the backyard of my old house. I can

feel the concrete hot against my feet and see the long driveway where my brothers

were getting ready to roll me down on a skateboard.

This isn’t to say that I always believed every lie I told. I wouldn’t think I was a

liar if to me everything I said was absolutely true. Lying was a game, a fun one

where the stories and movies and pictures I saw in my eyelids at night could make

me forget I was school learning long division. I knew that despite what I told my

friends on the playground, I was not, in fact, adopted by leprechauns.

When I grew up my lies weren’t cool anymore, just as average as the truth.

They were little things - things people don’t even think about after awhile. I wasn’t

opening up about my problems to my coworker when she asked how I was doing. I

definitely had no clue where my boyfriend’s hoodie was and as far as my dentist

knew I flossed twice a day, every day. They’re the kind of lies that no one really

minds, the kinds that people tell so much that they get lost and after a while it’s

more conversation than anything. I once read that 60 percent of people can’t have a

ten-minute conversation without lying once. (I don't know how true that is.)

So I didn’t really mind handing in my survey to my teacher, admitting I

wasn’t the poster-girl for honestly. Psychology says I’m not crazy, just human, so I’m

sticking to that for the time being - or at least until my next existential crisis.

Honest.