There was a time I could lie without conscience. I wondered occasionally if I were a sociopath, but in retrospect I suspect it was more that I was walling my emotions off from others as a self-defense mechanism.
I would be whoever someone wanted me to be, for a while. I had no real sense of self. I had a collection of things I liked, things I enjoyed, but I was more Mimic than actual person. To say I didn’t know who I was wasn’t just an understatement. I didn’t *care* who I was. I had zero desire for self-analysis and existed as much for the moment as Piers Anthony’s nymphs who wake every day with no memory and frolic with the fawns in eternal youth.
But everyone has to grow up sometime, and pain has a nasty habit of forcing one to confront things left in stasis while dancing in the bliss of denial.
The more I care, the less I am able to lie. It is fortunate this affliction does not extend to the casual encounters of my days. How many times have I been asked how I’m doing or how I’ve been, only to respond with broad smile and lying eyes that life is good? I tried other responses, such as “same ol’, same ol’,” but that lives closer to the truth. Truth adjacency can slip out of my eyes if I’m not careful.
I’m not good. I’m not even okay. My heart is wilting from neglect. The slow withdrawal of affection I recently experienced was like subsisting on bread crumbs in order to avoid starvation. Daddy did His best to make up for the lack and ease my hurts, but I suspect much like taking out a second mortgage, it will take a while to pay back, to heal.
Heffalump is at his usual games. I question everything. I was the one to put my foot down and put an end to the farce, requesting space to heal. Did I do the right thing? Am I the real bad guy here, impatient and selfish, or did I have legitimate reasons to be hurt? Could I have been more patient, more understanding?
Did I hurt someone else just because I was hurting?
None of those really have answers, at least not satisfying ones. The only answers Heffalump has to offer are rhe ones which damn me as villian, guilty of any infractions it can name.
As I dug my rotary cutter into buffalo hide last night, I almost cried for the animal I was mutilating, rather than savoring the texture and scent, rather than appreciating contributing to using the whole of an animal, rather than allowing its sacrifice to go unsung. The thoughts chased each other in circles in my head, driven out only briefly with each decisive slice. I almost crawled to Daddy to ask for pain or just a sharp slap in the face – anything to chase the Heffalumps away.
But they keep coming back.
I look fine today for anyone who doesn’t know. Dark colors and super soft fabric are the only exterior hints as I smile and laugh my way through the day, lying to the world with my eyes.
Bunny Trails of Christmas bunny 