Lies (162)

I am a crappy liar, I’m just one of those people that is not very good at it, and I kind of know just not to bother, because I’ll give the game away and it will come back to bite me. One of the good things my parents taught me was to just be honest and forthcoming about it when I screw up, that just admitting it makes the consequences far less; people will be much less annoyed at you, and that’s true on the whole, I think.

That said, I do differentiate between types of lies. I’ve come to notice this particularly with pocketcanadian, because when she asks me how I am, and I say ‘fine’, which is my way of coping a lot of the time (and something I think most people do), it can cause some pretty decent arguments between the two of us. When it comes to how I am doing and what’s going on for me, I guess I do lie, fairly regularly. And, I don’t really consider it lying, even though it absolutely is.

The other thing this brings to my mind is my eldest brother, who for a long time my parents questioned whether he was a pathological liar. He would lie about all sorts of things, little to very very big, and frequently. Some of them are so bad that even though I had nothing to do with these lies, that I feel so ashamed to just be related to somebody who has told those sorts of lies, that I have never been able to tell even my therapist about them, because what if she judges me just because we’re related.

one hundred & sixty one: anger

i don’t do anger very well, either. let’s just get that straight.

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a few years ago i would have said i was fluent in anger. it was an acceptable expression of emotion, just like with pocketbrit’s family, but there was no awareness of what drove it. what it was covering. what lay underneath.

at the beginning of my marriage, when my wife and i argued, i’d often end up really angry. super frustrated, sharp words, defensive, prickly, unfair, terrible. and her response was to cajole, distract, or check out, coz that’s what kept her safe in her home as a kid, being able to interrupt a volatile situation or just exit. coz she also came from a home where anger was dangerous; where there was screaming and violence and arguing. in fact, she remembers often taking refuge on the roof of her house, where the shouting and crashing were muffled, where she’d sit, with her knees drawn up, watching the stars, waiting for it to end. that makes me so so sad.

it just occurred to me that we triggered the fuck out of each other. i got angry, and she got absent. she didn’t get angry, she just got quiet, and then i got absent.

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over the ensuing decade and a bit, we worked it through. she knows that when i am lashing out at her, that i am hurt. and i know that if i want her to hear me, i need to dig deeper, and let her know what’s beneath all my spikes. similarly, i know that when she starts raging about the house being out of order or going silent, that she is scared, and needing to exert control somewhere. she has learned that disappearing when she is angry is far scarier for me than any words or actions she may take.

however, these last few years have really fucked with that vibe. separately, we’re each working through our trauma(s) in therapy, and it’s been hard, really hard, to figure it out with each other while we’re evolving individually. she is learning to find her voice, her entirely justified anger, her inner advocate, and it is so good, and so important, and so necessary. by no means am i always good with it, coz sometimes i’m just terrible, ask her. and on the flip side, i am learning (so so fucking slowly, like turtle-with-four-broken-legs slow) to allow room for my hurt, to feel the stuff beneath all those angry, prickly layers i built up, to unpack the reflex to get mad. it is the worst timing, and the best timing both, and it is hard.

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more often than not these days, i am terrified by anger. my own, and that of others. i get instantly small, instantly triggered, instantly wanting to bolt out of wherever i am so i can hyperventilate and panic. and it is really fucking inconvenient, and so shameful. i mean, fuck, i grew up with a goodly dose of violence, parents who yelled and hit us fairly frequently, i used to have no problem getting enraged, why am i getting so fucking weird about it now?

i don’t know, but nowadays, anger undoes me. i’ve gone the opposite direction.

ask the people closest to me (my wife, pocketbrit, even my kid) and they’ll tell you. a hint of anger and i’m outta there. it’s the worst, the absolute worst.

i really want to get better with it.