Zero Fucks To Give

This is how every story about my childhood should start.

I was a pathological liar as a kid. I lied about everything. And I mean everything.

I know tall tales and fibs are common with kids. When you’re constantly bombarded with fairytales and stories you want to feel included and create your own, trying to one-up The Brother’s Grimm or Robert Munsch. Hell, my own crotch goblin, forever named Spawn, conjured a sibling in the summer between kindergarten and first grade. Imagine my surprise when waiting outside the school to pick her up, parents kept asking where the baby was.

“What baby?”

“Spawn said she got a baby sister over the summer. Her name is Melody.”

Me, laughing hysterically, “Melody is her doll! There is no sister.”

I had my tubes tied the year before, much to Spawn’s devastation. The only way she was getting what she wanted was if her dad decided to procreate with another woman, or the next messiah was sliding out of my womb. Therefore, she spun a story about an imaginary baby and on the first day of school spread the story far and wide. I almost felt bad I spoiled her fantasy, but I certainly wasn’t gonna undo the doctor’s hard work so she could save face.

If you ask her now she’ll tell you how utterly grateful she is to be an only child!

But back to me.

After all this is my story, not hers.

That’s why this blog exists. To write my story. To give clarity and coherence to the voices in my head that are aching to be heard. I’ve always said that I’ve lived a boring life, that nothing exciting has ever happened, but I am oh so very wrong. I may only be forty-three, but I have lived.

I didn’t realize just how much until a couple years ago when I started recounting my life to a friend. I’d pop in my earbuds, go for a walk and tell a story. It was therapeutic to relive the good moments, remembering that my life hasn’t always been trauma and chaos. I didn’t shy from the bad stories either, I kept a balance in my ramblings. Sadly, that friend no longer listens to my monologues, so I took to Instagram to expel the pent up word jumble that is my brain. But did you know there is a 2000 character limit? 2000! My hashtag game is funny as fuck so I ate those characters up like a greedy truffle pig.

So, here I am, starting this journey all over again.

Before you ask, no, I don’t have those recordings. I deleted them long ago and since said friend is no longer around I cannot ask if they have them (doubtful they would even if I could ask). I don’t regret not keeping them, those were stories for him, these are stories for you. Probably better since you won’t have to hear me huffing and puffing as I walk around my neighbourhood talking to myself. I’m not opposed to doing them on occasion to post here, but I’m an analog girl. I prefer words and photographs. I don’t do a lot of video other than creating reels and the odd movie. I like the snapshots of life. I think there is more to see in a static moment than a dynamic blur of movement.

I might be the only one who thinks this anymore, but since I’m the narrator of my life I get to tell it the way I want. Albeit with the added challenge of trying to decipher fact from fiction. When I saunter down memory lane I can honestly say I don’t know if some stories are true or false. I’ve told them so many times that it’s hard to say if they happened or just become a part of my narrative. Most stories I know are true because there is evidence of said moment, but others…I just don’t know.

I know why I lied. Why I kept lying. My life was a trainwreck and I needed to find a consistency that I couldn’t get anywhere but from the words flying out of my mouth. I was smart about it, I told the same lie over and over again, like memorizing lines for a play. The response was automatic when the cue was triggered. I gave myself a stability in the lies because frankly the truth was a void in an abyss, dark as fuck. You see, that was my secret, I lied about normalcy. I took the earthquake in a hurricane that was my actual life and gave it a midwestern summer with only little tornadoes.

I was also fucking good at it. So damn good that even my mother, who could ferret out the slightest of white lies from my brother and sister, couldn’t tell when I was blowing smoke up everyone’s ass. Lying became as easy as walking, until that walk became a tightrope. Not in terms of keeping the lies straight, that was easy enough, but the reasons for the lies.

Therapy snapped that tightrope right out from under me. I could no longer avoid the truth or hide it behind boring summers doing nothing. Reality came crashing down, shattering the glass house I was living in. Confronting those lies and the truth behind them ground the shattered glass to a fine sand. Only when that work was done was I able to walk away and rebuild.

I won’t lie (HA!) and tell you I don’t distort reality once in awhile, of course I do. I might live a more transparent life but I’m not a complete idiot. What I can tell you is the times I do deceive it’s with purpose, mostly to save feelings and friendships. It’s also why when I find someone has been dishonest with me I don’t react with anger, but with understanding and disappointment, in myself.

We all lie for one reason or another, but for the most part we use lies as a bubble wrap of self preservation. That’s the understanding part. I get it. I told whoppers to protect myself, to protect those around me from the ugliness that I was going through. I’m not going to judge someone on why they lied, but on the creativity of it. The more colourful the better I say!

However, I am going to confront when I find out. Not with malice and accusation but with an invitation to talk. If they choose to talk, great, if they don’t, well, that’s okay too. But I’m going to do a little self reflection to see if I have created an environment where they don’t feel comfortable coming to me, or if I have given them a reason to believe I am not a safe person to talk to. I’d like to think myself a very open minded and non-judgemental person. I do my best to listen with intention but I know this is a skill I struggle with. I’m a problem solver. This is very off-putting to someone when all they want is an ear to listen, not a superhero in red lipstick and Spanx.

I prefer to live with an openness that borders on oversharing. No topic is off limits and the more taboo (think politics, religion and sex) the better. Spawn and her friends like to throw a random topic at me, pull the string and see what I have to say. I think my favourite one so far was when they asked my opinion on STI’s. That was a very fun 15 minute drive! They learned a lot and my kid cackled ’cause she saw the look on their face. She’d heard the lecture before.

But this is not how everyone lives. Most people live in their bubble, keeping topics safe for all to talk about, not offending or upsetting anyone. Fearful of embarrassment that will ostracize them from the group, or creating an enemy.

Fuck. That. Shit.

It’s boring.

Kind and thoughtful, yes, but boring as fuck.

You gotta be able to have the tough conversations, speak the truth and hope that who you’re talking to is reasonable. If they’re not, then do the smart thing, tell them they’re right and walk the fuck away. Save your breath.

Life is far more fun if you’re honest and have zero fucks to give.