When I was a young kid, probably around five or six, I came home after school every day with my babysitter. She had grey wispy hair and a quiet demeanor. Sometimes her friends would come over to knit or draw, and occasionally we would watch just a little bit more television than my mom allowed.
That particular day I watched Sesame Street, which was the only show my parents approved. I, however, was bored and asked to watch the next show. I think it was either Barney or Teletubbies – but don’t quote me on that.
Our landline phone, and only phone (remember those days?) rang and I ran to pick it up. My mother answered and we talked for a while. She asked why she could hear TV and I lied. I don’t remember what the lie was, just that it slipped out of my mouth quickly and impulsively. After the lie I felt a pit in my stomach. My mom could tell, and the flat disappointment in her voice was palpable. I don’t remember details of what happened after, or if I even faced any consequences. I do remember the sunken feeling in my chest, and the lingering fear of lying that my mom’s quiet voice instilled in me.
Now, sometimes I feel like I live in a world of lies. Recently, after a lot of thought and research, I bought a car. I walked into the dealership, sat down and discussed things with the salesman. He wanted to know why I haven’t had a job since last year, and if I was looking for one. I find that figuring out what I should share about my life is like a ballet dance. It has to be graceful and perfectly choreographed or else the imperfections beneath the surface will become blaringly obvious. My dance seemed like it was a two year old’s recital. I faced a barrage of questions, and tried to dodge them but instead let them hit me and bog me down.
I am surrounded by lies.
They’re not the lies of others.
I have created them all.
I told people I dated that I was taking classes when what I was really doing was a psychiatric day program.
I called my brother from a locked hospital crisis unit in the middle of the Berkshires and pretended that I doing well in residential care and getting my life together.
My therapist thought I was drinking three drinks a night, I was drinking ten.
I would tell people I went on a couple dates with that I had met someone else – who wanted to date me exclusively, because I didn’t want to get too close.
Point being, I lie a lot. I even lie to myself.
Why do I do this? As much as I like to say that I’m brave, I still fear stigma. I hate the confused looks and condescending conclusions. At the same time, the only way to avoid all of that in the future is to talk openly about myself. If I had a physical illness, would I have a problem telling the salesman why I wasn’t working? I might, but instead of getting a confused stare, maybe I’d get a nod of understanding.
After a few frustrating days at the car dealership, and a litany of questions I finally told him that I lived in a mental health treatment center. That was why I wasn’t working. Driving for me is incredibly scary. I’ve only driven four times since I moved away from New York City. I told him adamantly that I would prefer to have the car delivered instead of driving home in the dark. I knew he wanted to close the deal rapidly. As we talked my voice got more tense, and I could feel my anxiety beating like a panic alarm in my chest.
“I understand that you have difficulties.”
He said.
“I wouldn’t want you to have a panic attack or something.”
This, I thought to myself, is why I hesitate to share my story.
Assumptions.
“That would definitely not happen, that’s….”
I responded, I wanted to correct him, to tell him not to fear me just because I have a psychiatric diagnosis. I realized it was futile.
So I drove the car home in the dark. I was done, tired, and felt like I had something to prove.
There is nothing about me, that should scare people.
Yet people love labels, and labels breed assumptions.
Someday, I want to be able to stand up to stigma, and stop telling little lies. I want to be able to be myself, and have that self be accepted and celebrated. I don’t know how to make those changes. Do you?