Liar (s)

We hear that mental illness is a liar.

The negative and scary thoughts are lies.

Sometimes, mental illness sufferers are themselves called liars.

And we are.

Ah, but not in the way that is presumed, you see.

No.

We are liars, not in the sense that we lie about having mental illness. We lie because we constantly pretend that we aren’t suffering due to either the fear of stigma, judgement, ridicule, rejection but often, we lie because we don’t want to suffer from any of what is involved with mental illness.

The first “lie” that I invented was when I was about 7 years old. After an intense bout of verbal/mental abuse being imposed on me by someone who was, I believed, supposed to protect and love me, I decided that I would no longer show emotion to anyone other than happiness.

This meant no more tears, no more anger and certainly nothing to ever indicate weakness.

When I was 10 years old, sexual abuse started.

Another key person in my life that should, by definition of their title, have protected and cared for me. So I lied.

Again.

I lied about what was happening to me.

Then a lie about my own view of my body began. This one follows me to this day.

It was decided that it did not exist.

The sexual abuse lasted 7 years. It was once discovered by another “should have been” protector but the reality of it was probably much too difficult to bear that it was deemed untrue and invisible. And although it was witnessed very clearly, it was decided that it did not exist which in turn let it persist for years.

I lied about my food intake. My wonderful family life. My happiness. All of it. I was confident, fearless, fierce and in complete control. I was a force to be reckoned with and nothing could touch me.

All.

Lies.

Even at my lowest weight which was about 50lbs under what is considered as healthy.  I lied to myself. I didn’t have a problem. I was fat. My “should have been” protectors lied about it too. It didn’t exist.

None of the visible and invisible scars existed. This version of me didn’t exist. It was just a mirage.

I can tell you that I overcame much of my traumas, hurts, demons and struggles.

And I have.

But I still lie to this day.

I lie because at a few key points in my life, I stopped lying and told the truth.

I asked for help so that the sexual abuse would stop. It was deemed nonexistent and life went on.

I asked for help when I could no longer work and study because I had been gone since the age of 16 with short spurts back with my parents only to leave again, unable to find safety and acceptance and was now diagnosed with depression, failing college and although, I did not eat much, I still needed to pay my rent and that meant working on virtually no sleep, coffee and cigarettes.

It was deemed as “Not so bad” and that I just needed to not be “That mental person” in the family. One that is filled with medical specialists who had been in the field far longer than I had been alive for. This too, was nonexistent.

I was told that I had shamed an entire family.

I asked for help when one of the more powerful “should have been” protectors who happened to be the director of multiple hospitals including the one that I was being treated at for my nonexistent depression, anorexia, body dysmorphia and OCD, “happened” to find out about what had been shared during therapy sessions with the psychiatrist. I was confronted and told that I had shamed an entire family, even though my sexual abuser admitted in front of 2 other witnesses (I was in the room myself) that the abuse had taken place but no, I was told that it had never happened and that it was all fabrication on my part and that I would now be disowned.

Now I had become nonexistent.

Merry Christmas. It happened on a December 25th.

Over the years, I have asked for help perhaps a handful of times. It didn’t go well. You see, I had become so good at lying about how I was feeling that when I showed any type of emotion, it was something that was impossible for others to process.

So my only thought was to become.

Nonexistent.

I failed.

And it went rather unnoticed save for hearing the words: “You truly are a failure…you can’t even kill yourself properly. You are an embarrassment and the reason for any unhappiness in my life. I wish you had succeeded. Now instead, if anyone hears of this, I will be ashamed because of you.”

I lied again.

I applied makeup on, bandages where they were needed, smoked 5 cigarettes, drank 2 coffees and strolled into work as if all was right with the world.

“Sorry guys, really bad migraine kicked my ass and I needed to be on Demerol for a few days.”

Today, at 40 years old, I still lie. Daily. “I’m good. How are you?!” “I’m ok, just a bit tired.” Because I still do not know how to handle emotion. I am unable to express it properly which quickly becomes about the other person witnessing my struggle rather than it being about me.

I’ve found admitting to anyone that I am in pain, that I am not ok, is such a completely foreign concept to me that the lies just work better. And so I choose them.

It isn’t their fault. They should not have to bear this.

I lie because I do not want my daughters to know that their mother feels a pain so incredibly deep that on many days, breathing is a struggle. It isn’t their fault. They should not have to bear this.

The pain is nonexistent to their worlds. Because I wish it to be that way.

I lie because I don’t want to be seen as “that employee” as I was once extremely open about my mental illness with an employer only to be “let go” one week later.

I lie because breaking down is a burden to others and I honestly don’t know how to even do it. Tears will escape my eyes but they are stopped within seconds because it is all that I know.

Save for one evening late last year when I screamed and sobbed for the first time since I was 7 years old. In that moment, not one single lie was present. Everything existed.

And it was absolute hell.

Mental illness loves to lie to its sufferers. Its warriors and conquerors.

But I still lie much better than it ever could.

Don’t worry. I’m ok.