I can’t help it.
I read a book once that said my lies were a defense mechanism. It is not my fault exactly. That is just what happens when you grow up in a house with drug addicts and alcoholics. With parents who are never around. With a stepfather that was too hung over to leave the front room.
I lie about where I’ve been. Who I’ve been with. My first name.
I lie about why I am late and why I am early. I lie about the last book I finished.
The lies are trivial things. Exaggerations. Retelling. Inconsequential. But they can not be helped. Sometimes I do not even realize I do it until after the words have flung from my mouth.
Without ever knowing it, I was taught the most advanced art of deception.
It is how I learned to survive.