not me - i was just lying for fun

on fabricating your life, fear of losing control, and trust

I’m sitting at a small table in a dimly lit bar-restaurant-tapas hybrid, conversation enveloping the room with warmth and jubilance typically reserved for movie scenes, my fingers tapping against the glass of wine I’m trying and failing to take small sips of. I nod and laugh along at my friends’ conversation— anecdotes about their coworkers, dates they went on, trips they want to plan— and in my head I try to think of something, anything, to share about my life. I haven’t seen some of them in weeks, plenty of time for something new and exciting to have transpired, but my reality has been bleak.

Have you been up to anything, Sarah, one of them asks, turning their attention to me. I light up, I love the attention, and like any good actor, I step into the spotlight.

I mean a lot of the usual, searching for full-time jobs and whatnot, but I’ve been working on some really exciting pieces for my publication. And I’m trying to write a book, probably an essay collection, I have bits and pieces of a novel already written. The words flow seamlessly out of my mouth, accompanied by a smile and a shrug. There’s just so much happening right now, I’m kind of overwhelmed.

They exchange glances, ask a few follow-up questions that I eagerly answer, and express excitement for the genuine success I’m experiencing. One of them tells me that it’s good that I have “this writing thing” going so well for me and I nod. As soon as the attention moves to the next person I excuse myself to the restroom. I slam the door behind me and face myself in the mirror, my cheeks brighter than usual, whether from the attention or the wine, and I turn the water on, letting it run over my hands as I stare into my reflection, a cacophony of my words echoing in my head.

I’m doing well, I’m writing constantly and there’s so much happening it’s almost impossible to keep up with all of the projects. It’s glamourous in a chaotic, messy, artistic way— all are merely aspirations I desperately wish to be true. Perhaps if I say them out loud it’s a form of manifestation, maybe that’s why I said that to my friends. Do they know I’m lying—maybe not lying, stretching the truth? Everything in my head is moving too fast, I want to tell them everything—I’m in a creative rut, I feel lost, I don’t understand the trajectory I’m on right now— but I’m at war with myself. If I tell them, I’m admitting to something I haven’t fully accepted myself, so I lie.

ophelia; friedrich heyser

Lying is protection, I do it to create a buffer from having to discuss the pieces of my life that make me the most insecure. Opening up, admitting my shortcomings—especially in the faces of my successful, wonderful friends— is the equivalent of peeling back my skin, baring my organs, and letting them see inside of me. I panic and I worry, will they hate me if they know that I lied, will they pity me? I don’t know what feels worse.

To rationalize this, I catalog the instances of little lies in my head, I sort them into categories: harmless, protective, and messed up. I went to a party a few weeks ago and told a man that I was visiting DC for the weekend, that I was a writer from NYC, which goes in harmless. The months-long period during which my three best friends/roommates watched me break down every day, and heard me sob in the shower as I told them I was fine, that it was probably my birth control making me so reactive, all to hide the fact that my parents were separating, that goes into protective. Years of lies pass through my mind like I’m flipping through a photo album or spinning a film wheel.

The categories are justifications for this behavior, this part of myself that I resent yet can’t escape. It’s a lonely feeling, knowing yourself but feeling fear or shame of the little parts of you. Maybe I’m a little bit masochistic, I know this hurts me, but isn’t this so much better than letting the people who love me question if I’m really someone worth loving? I think to myself that I sound crazy, suddenly I’m in my head again, I want to go back out and confess to my lies, beg for forgiveness, and admit to my insecurities.

I imagine it so clearly, I walk out of the bathroom and sit back on my wobbly stool, all of the faces I could recall in my sleep turned towards me. I imagine a black curtain separating us, like the wall in a confessional. I submit my sins to them, the lies I told in casual conversation, the air of nonchalance I would constantly project. They embrace me, reach their hands across the table, and forgive me, but they ask me another question: why? I feel the lie form on my tongue before I can even get it out. The wave of panic and fear abruptly halts, and I’m left in the same place I was, trusting the people I love, but never fully.

Every part of me wants to break this cycle. I trace it back to the beginning and I’m unsurprised where the map ends. My elementary school friends deemed me uncool, I read too many books, I wasn’t yet into boys or popularity, so they tossed me aside. I’m haunted by the feeling of solitude, the specificity of loneliness that only a 12-year-old girl can understand. Every little lie I tell, the exaggerations in my stories, or the protective fabrications I cushion myself with, is for her, the girl who was lonely and humiliated.

I’ve joked about bringing back casual lying—telling strangers I meet in clubs and parties counterfeit versions of my life— since I know the odds of us meeting again are slim to none. It’s fun, the moments when I can invent someone completely different, be a girl who’s put together and interesting, someone who looks like me and talks like me but can’t possibly be me, but I know that even in jest it’s still a way for me to step outside myself, avoid talking about the parts of myself that I’m upset about. My mom often tells me that I’m avoidant and as much as I hate to admit it, I know she’s right. For much of high school I avoided confrontation—with my friends, with teachers who forgot to enter a grade— I was afraid of the pushback, of someone telling me that I was being silly or escalating the conflict beyond how I imagined it going. I used to try to put a reason to this, find a pattern in my avoidant tendencies, but after years of therapy, I now know it’s about maintaining control— one of the same reasons I find myself walking that line between fact and fiction with my friends.

I’m terrified to lose control, I like knowing what’s going to happen next for me, across all subsections of my life. Right now, I’m in a period of deep uncertainty, and whenever I find myself questioning what the next day looks like, I find myself more likely to be untrue when the conversation turns toward me. I love the people around me so much, I want to sit next to them and tell them everything, ask for their advice, but I’m not ready to cede control of the feelings I’ve carefully boxed up.

I leave the bathroom, lipgloss freshly applied, hair bouncy and tossed over my shoulder. I’m collected, I’m confident. I’ll be the picture of confidence, smiling and laughing until I can go home and once again collapse under the weight of my self-imposed solitude, finally honest with myself.

hello! thank you so much for reading people’s princess! in honor of the holiday season, i’m running a 20% off sale on paid subscriptions until december 31. if you’ve considered upgrading, now’s the time to do it! paid subscriptions are a massive support and allow me to put more time into this publication and create more long-form pieces. i’m forever grateful for all of you, and if you have the ability to upgrade to paid, i would greatly appreciate your support! have an incredible holiday, and use the button/link below to claim the deal!

weekly favorites

• i watched a bunch of movies this week, but these are my 3 favorites (reviews are all posted on my letterboxd)

  • the substance

  • i used to be funny

  • a different man

• the graphic i made for the people’s princess instagram

• faith zapata
  ’s essay “okay i’m healed! now send me the exact same guy”

• a warm mug of green tea

• sitting on the floor and eating tacos with paul

• days of abandonment by elena ferrante

i appreciate all SIX THOUSAND!!!! of you so much

with love,

sarah 💌