Dancing around the Truth

Char said keep going.
This is an internal monologue, something that won't ever make it into the book. But it reveals quite a bit about the character of my girl, don't you think?
This one seems to be slipping out in 1st, which I'm not all that comfortable with, especially since so much of her history shadows mine in very obvious ways. She's not me, though. She's full of darkness and regret over decisions she's made. She hasn't found her happily ever after. And I'm not sure if she will. But I do know that she's very strong. And she does what she thinks she has to do in order to protect the people that she loves. And really? That's just like me...


How many levels of Truth do you have in your life? How many layers of Reality do you allow to exist in your world at one time? Do they ever get out of hand? Does one part of your life, maybe a part that you stuck in a duct-taped box on the top shelf of your closet, ever threaten to jump off the shelf and insist that you pay attention NOW?

In my life, I have, probably much like most of you, done things of which I am not particularly proud. I have lied. I have kept the truth from people. I have danced around the truth in action, in word. While doing those things, I firmly believed it was the right thing to do.

I once told my brother, after yet another move to another new city that included another new dad, that everything was going to be ok. It wasn't. I knew that. My mom was nuts, and I knew that that city, that school, that house, that dad, wasn't going to last til the end of the year. But I held his hand while we walked into yet another first day of school, and I squeezed his fingers in mine, and I told him that it was going to be all right. I lied. I knew then that I was lying. But I did it anyway. I justified it by telling myself that he needed to hear those words to get through the day. I told myself it was ok to tell that lie, because he was young and scared and he needed me to reassure him. So I did it. I lied.

I once told my daughter, the beautiful girl that brought light and sunshine to my world and taught me to be a mom, that we would be just fine. My husband had left me, bruised and battered, on a small island far from family and friends. I held that baby close and whispered that we were going to be just fine. I knew it was a lie. Nothing was fine, and I had no idea how to make things fine. But I told her that anyway. She was just a baby, and she needed to hear soft words to help her sleep. So I did it. I lied.

Those weren't bad lies. They were necessary. They were the right words to say at the time, and I said them, in order to spare feelings or help boost someone's spirits. I'd say them again if I was ever in the same situation.

Does that make me a horrible person?

I never thought so. Until one of my lies, one of the ones that just slipped out of my mouth sitting on my couch one day, came back to haunt me.

It was such a simple little thing, not even a lie, really. Someone asked me a question. Instead of answering the question directly, I side-stepped. I answered it in a way that gave the person the answer he wanted to hear, without actually giving him an answer. It was the right thing to do. It was the best thing to do at the time.

Was that wrong?

I never thought so.

Until today.