If you’re honest twice and lie once within the same breath, is that a truth or a lie?
…or is it the magnitude of a lie that matters? Even if sandwiched between two truths. Is it like a BOGO? You get one lie for each truth—a dignified, dishonest discount.
Or is a lie a lie? No matter how you stack it. How about when used as armor for self-protection or a cushion to ease the pain of someone you love? Can a lie be justified if the intention is pure?
Spoiler alert: According to the Big D (Webster’s Dictionary, you sickos), an untrue or inaccurate statement that may or may not be believed true by the speaker or writer is considered a lie.
So then, what’s the point of all this? Why am I wasting my time writing this and you reading?
Because lying is uncomfortable, and we all do it. And as I get older (omg, have I really become the “as I get older” girl? Damn. That kinda sucks… lol), the clearer I see that freedom is found on the other side of discomfort. So, let’s lean in.
Now, for anyone comfortable with lying, you’re a monster. JK. But if that is your case, I have a question for you… why? Why do you lie with ease? Does it feel so good to be so morally wrong? Can you feel the seduction of your inner sadist come alive? Are you conscious as to what your motive is rooted in?
I’m not here to grill anyone on when it’s “okay” to lie vs. when it’s not. Because, frankly, I am the least qualified human on planet Earth to write any ethical blueprint for the general public, let alone myself (and probably Mars. Shout out Aliens. If you’re reading this, next UFO crash plz take me with yoooouuuu). And alongside that, not to sound callous, I really don’t give a shit if you lie or what you lie about. Your life, your moral compass. That’s not up for debate.
I’m more interested in contemplating what end lying serves on a visceral level. What sort of self-inflicting sadomasochistic pleasure do we get from this two-faced trickery? Are even the most innocent lies really as guilt-free as they seem? Why does this psychological warfare feel so sexy and criminal all at once? And what about the aftermath? Where does the cycle begin, and does it ever end?
I need to know the answers to these questions because I am that liar. I lie. Like a lot. About the lamest, most insignificant crapola (I’m not even kidding), and I’m just now starting to realize that it’s fucking with my shit. Enough so that my therapist decided to call me out on it last week.
Therapist: “Becca, that’s not the full truth. What are you doing when you follow two truths with a lie? What are you trying to protect?”
I had never thought about it like that. I don’t think I ever think much when I follow two truths with a nonsensical lie. It just comes out like word vomit. What am I doing here? Now I’m confused, and everything feels weird.
Me: “Um. Actually, I don’t know. I hadn’t realized my lie was a lie. I just wanted the conversation to feel better.”
Therapist: “For who? Not you, it seems. It’s like you’ll never let anyone see the real you. The disagreeable you. The version of you who has no idea what she is fucking doing—the messy you.”
1 Jana, my therapist, curses from time to time. I love that about her. It humanizes her, making the fact that I’m paying a total stranger to listen to my most personal, insecure thoughts feel way less weird. Idk. For some reason, the word “fuck” just makes me feel really fucking good. I feel myself when I say fuck. Disruptive. Untamed. Hot. When I say fuck, you know I’m being fucking for real. No lies, no bluff.
Jana: “Do you know what two truths and a lie cost you, Becca?”
I’m reluctant to answer, already anticipating the course correction work it will take to unbind yet another poor behavior pattern I’ve acquired throughout the years that, candidly speaking, I am too emotionally drained to fucking deal with.
Me: “Sure.”
Jana: “Genuine connection. With yourself and others. The exact thing you’re hoping to achieve through your falsehood.”
Jana teaches me about the energy a lie holds and how people can subconsciously smell my shit even when I don’t realize I’m spewing it. You know when you come home to your dog after work and already know they’ve chewed something up before even walking through the door? It’s kind of like that. Sometimes we just energetically sense shit on a subconscious level. More times than I believe we give ourselves credit for. When something’s off in the air, you don’t have to see it to know that you feel it. And, naturally, when we sense something is off, we keep an arm's length.
I hate that. I hate that my stupid people-pleasing, word-vomit tendencies have acted as a natural relationship repellent, and I had no fucking idea. And what’s worse is coming to terms with why I do what I do: mask up. I tell you two truths and lie with my pretty little Crest-whitened teeth smile because I’m scared to admit I’m a fucking mess, and I don’t want you to have to deal with witnessing my shit and me having to deal with however you choose to respond. So I lie. I tell you a bit of the truth and a little bit of a fabricated lie, so no one feels uneasy. I’ll pretend I have some master plan sprinkled in fairy dust so you don’t feel like you need to counsel me in your own “special” way that I’ll most likely resent you for until the end of time. Lol. (The drama, I knowwww…)
Sometimes, it just feels easier to meet people where they’re at, so I don’t have to deal with explaining myself for where I’m at. But as much as I hate it, a part of me admittedly loves it. I love knowing I’m the superwoman in this imaginary narrative, humbly saving you the trouble of holding space for my woes in your life that I have preemptively decided you don’t have room for. Acting in vengeance against all dangers that my depressing truth would cause your beautiful, freshly botox-injected forehead.
* Disclaimer: I love my overpriced, wrinkle-relaxed forehead. So trust me, I get it.
I will suffer in silence for the benefit of us both (without ever giving you the option to exercise your right to experience our conversation otherwise).
I know, I’m the problem. I’m the problem; it’s me. (Taylor, hi.) I understand that my assumption-based behavior is rooted in anxiety and a make-believe, cynical story floating through the depths of my dark psyche. But I can’t help it. I’m a little fucked up sometimes, and this projection is one that I have yet to shake. I’m working on it.
When I’m alone, basking in my reclusive bliss, it’s easy to own the fact that I’m just out here, free-balling the fuck out of life (excuse my crude). Sure, the lack of clarity can be daunting at times, but I don’t mind. I know I’ll figure it out. I always do. Blind faith is sort of my thing.
What hurts is the loneliness that comes with being misunderstood. It feels like my constant lack of clarity digs at my credibility as a functional human in today’s normative societal script, and I don’t know how to connect with people in that place—it feels impossible… except when I lie. My lies are a buffer between attuned affirmation and rejected separation—a fleeting glimpse of what I believed connection to be before retreating to complete seclusion.
Rightly or wrongly, I think most people like to believe they are emphatic or capable of holding the weight of others’ tribulations when, in reality, most people don’t have the heart, patience, or depth for that sort of undertaking. And, truthfully, I’ve grown to understand that—it’s a lot, and in actuality, other peoples’ problems are not your responsibility to fix.
Note: This is not to undercut the absolute godsend of having people in your life who can show up with love and compassion for you when it feels near impossible to keep your head above water. Because, truly, I don’t know where I’d be without the few people in my life who have held me when I could not hold myself, but I’d like to save that sentiment for a different thought piece—one where I can give it the recognition and reflection it deserves.
Not knowing wtf you’re doing with your life costs you a lot—money, time, mental and physical health, relationships, opportunities, safety, love, etc.—and, unfortunately, can inadvertently cost the people you care about much of the same, too. It makes me sick to my stomach, but it’s the truth. It’s my truth. My decisions have hurt people I care about. Whether they admit it or not, I know it to be true.
That’s why I like two truths and a lie. It softens the blow, even if the bite of my tongue will cause me to bleed.
Just recently, at 28 years old, I told my mom I was applying to Filmmaking Master Programs in Europe because I wanted to rebuild my career and become a Creative Director. Sounds cool, right? Daring and darling—so risqué. It’s giving “Carpe Diem” draped in Dior. Well, not exactly. Because what you’re reading is a prime example of my two truths and a lie motif in motion.
N°1 de Truth: I am applying to Master's Programs in Europe.
N°2 de Truth: I do want to rebuild my career at 28 years old.
N°3 de Lie: I have nooo fucking idea if I want to be a
Creative Director or, tbh, what a Master in Filmmaking would really even mean.
Also, the only reason this idea is even on the table is that over 100 jobs have rejected me this past year, and frankly, I’m out of options. This has to work if I want any chance to pursue my dream of a creative career, or else it dies, and I’m working at a bar in fucking Florida until further notice. Or even worse, I will inevitably have to move back home and sell half-baked feet pics to creepy men on the internet.
But, if I tell my mom that I have a concrete aspiration, it makes my crazy idea sound more robust and feasible. Like I have a realistic plan, and I know what I’m doing and what I’m doing will work, so there is no need to question me or object. Because if I appear to be confident in what I’m doing, then there is an ROI that my mom can measure, allowing her to feel safe and maybe even proud. I think my therapist would call this “merging" or “people-pleasing,” but I call it making Mom happy. And I love my Mom, so if she’s happy, I’m happy. Yikes.
Suppose I were to be honest and tell my mom that I actually have no idea what I’m doing besides “following an impulse” and “embracing my true inner feather-in-the-wind spirit.” In that case, she would flip and become overwhelmed with worry, which is the last thing I want to cause her or have to mediate. Because her concern concerns me, and then I feel paralyzed. But more than that, I so deeply do not want to be made “bad” for living in my truth, even if my truth is baked in a potential risk of failure. Like the possibility of an unfixable unemployment status and insurmountable debt—a direction I am already currently headed in.
But I want the risk. None of that scares me. I want to fight to live peacefully in my truth. I no longer want to hide behind my bullshit, fear-based lies. Doing so feels like living with a held breath, and I feel like I am on the verge of passing out at any given moment. The armor that two truths and a lie once protected me in is starting to rust from all my tears, and the weight of it all now makes me crumble.
So, I’m learning to unarm. To own the actuality of my physical existence and embrace whatever emotional parallels that brings in today’s cultural climate. Because what I now understand is that it isn’t my debt and the inability to brag about some lame corporate KPIs on LinkedIn that’s killing me. It’s living life without feeling alive, that is.
And it frustrates me to think about the anticipated rejection and shame I carry for simply being me and living how I choose to live for this limited time we all have on earth. It hurts my heart—knowing how I have decided to punish myself in the darkness behind my four walls for believing it is not my dignified human right to exist in happiness as I am. Or to be in real connection with others without fear of judgment for not having money to throw or a fancy job title to hide behind. It’s all so disorienting.
And what sends me into a spiral is that I fucking did this to myself. I made one risky decision that caused me to lose everything I had worked so hard to build. If I hadn’t made that one decision, my life would be incredibly different now and, plainly speaking, easier in many ways. Externally, at least. So when people ask me why I’m working at some bar in Tampa or what happened to my old juicy job and shiny L.A. life, I tell them two truths and a lie. To save me from the embarrassment that my social image has become and you from the intense awkwardness by association. It just feels better for everyone that way.
Most days, I walk around believing that I should regret my decisions, but the truth is I don’t. I don’t regret anything one bit. I fucking love failure. And I hate that I feel like I should be embarrassed about it when, in my heart, I’m not. I absolutely adore how defeat sends you to hell and back—how the ungodly fire fuels my veins as I burn. To me, this is what life’s about. Falling flat on your fucking face in public, swallowing your ego, and being meticulous and compassionate in how you care for yourself as you work tirelessly to get back up in private. That’s how you know who the fuck you are. That is how you build resilience. That is how you find your authenticity in this filtered, counterfeit world.
But living in that truth isn’t sexy, so I lie. Owning your losses takes grace and grit while unapologetically navigating your triumph through the dark. I’m still figuring out how to do that without worrying about how it sits with others. And right now, that worry affects me on a visceral level, and if I’m being real, I’m not willing to endure that distraction. I need to keep moving even if it does cost me two truths and a lie.
I guess that’s why I’ve decided to start this Substack. To practice living my truth in the face of others. Because if I don’t, I think I’m gonna die, and I am way too young and fun for that shit. But I’m scared to do this—overtly be me online and IRL, that is. Because for some weird reason, I have this idea that people will shit on me for trying—trying to be creative or expressive with my thoughts. I fear that by sharing my own basic, bona fide life experience in today’s oversaturated media landscape, I will come across as thinking that I’m “special,” like some underground influencer or an accredited writer who is oblivious to their own shit grammar and the bathetic plot that is actually (and unfortunately) the real-life that they live. Like Everyday.
Ironically enough, I know this would make them an asshole, not me, but for some odd reason, I want to protect us both from being in that potential (probable) situation—you being the monster and me having to deal with it.
I know to assume that this is how life works is flattening, and to believe that most people are bad is profoundly cynical and radically incorrect (potentially dangerous, too), but that’s just where I’m at right now. I told you I’m a little fucked up sometimes… again, Jana and I are working on it. Of course, there are many magical moments in life. I regularly experience serendipitous interactions and nuance that overwhelm me with a lust for life, but this piece isn’t about that. It’s about working to find agency in all that we are, both the light and dark. It’s about being messy and it being okay to be messy because life is just messy like that sometimes. And if you choose to lie because some days it feels easier and less lonely on the surface to be what you’re not in order to hide from what you are, I see you. I feel you. I am you. And to me, that’s okay, too. One day, I hope to embrace the fullness that I am without false assumptions or shameful guilt behind a broken smile, but until then, I will continue to move through life with two truths and a lie.
GUYS.
Thank u for reading my very first freaking Substack!!!
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These are not direct quotes from Jana herself or me, but my POV of how I experienced this conversation IRL. Without a doubt, Jana speaks with way more poise and intelligence than I could ever remember verbatim or truly mirror in my own words.