¡Ay Caramba, Telling The Truth Sux!
I always say the wrong thing: an eloquent shitpost.
I am a young woman incapable of being fake. This propensity for being unable and unwilling to hide my bombastic side eye has gotten me in a lot of trouble; my pseudo-smiles mock those around me more than stony silence ever will. Yet people still say to my face that they would prefer if I was a little nicer (not kind, but fake).
When I say ‘telling the truth sucks,’ I don’t mean I’m going around telling people they got bad haircuts and not liking those repercussions. I’m talking about the big conversations; I’m not afraid to call out a hypocrite. I have made many, many, MANY mistakes, and I will make even more, but to get on my back about a mistake I made, when you made the same one just a couple of months ago? Now that grinds my gears.
My godmother always taught me that the only thing you can do when you make a mistake is to own up to it. If you tracked mud in the house, own up to it; if you break an antique; own up to it; hurt someone’s feelings, apologise, and own up to it. I was taught from a very young age that you’ll never learn from a mistake until you fully acknowledge that you made it. This acknowledgement includes the future, it doesn’t count to say you’re sorry and then a couple of months later recant, saying that you never really got why the offended party was so upset anyway. That’s not how friendship, forgiveness, or any emotion that necessitates longevity, works.
I lied a lot as a young teen/tween. I was too insecure about myself to tell others the truth. After a mentor of mine died in 2022 I swore to myself that I would try my best to always tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I have been keeping myself in check; I am not close enough with anyone to reveal my lies. But honestly, if the right person asked, I would probably tell. I don’t think he will ask.
The benefits from telling the truth have not come piling in like the benefits from lying did. People laughed more at my embellished jokes, my fake stories— I was cooler with my lies. But being cool wasn’t enough for me— I had begun to read Dostoevsky. And when I was sitting in my pink-sheeted twin bed he slapped me in the face; my worst sin was that I betrayed and destroyed myself for nothing. Clout is fleeting, hell is eternity, and I get cranky in the heat.
The consequence of telling the truth is that people get mad, they get defensive. No one wants the truth from a flawed individual. No one wants criticism— justifiably— and yet everyone wants to better themselves. Everyone wants to go to university and change who they are; it never works. Your true self will be revealed, and it will be ugly, and maybe you won’t recover from the subsequent blows. I revealed my true self early enough that my peers did not know their own well enough to judge me for hiding mine; we were in this boat together.
But as the walls of Who You Say You Are collapse inward, as your crowd of friends turns out to be mindless followers, where will you turn? Certainly not to me. Because I know what I did wrong, and I work every day to amend it; you took back your words as soon as you could. Yes, time heals, but it does not erase; yes I forgive, no I don’t forget. You’ll never get it back.
So why stop lying? Why be your true self after you put all this work into your fake self? Because it will come out anyway, yes. But more importantly: every single soul deserves a fair shot at life, and far too many do not get it, so pick your rich white ass up and put some good into the world. You seem so well-versed in right and wrong, so put some of that into action; try to care about someone other than yourself. Or are your McDonald’s fries more important?
It’s hard not to lie completely in society, Instagram exists and I lie on there every day. I don’t even edit my photos and yet I don’t know how much I look like the girl whose face is all over my Instagram. I tell people I like to read, and I cite Dostoevsky and Tartt, omitting the romance novels I devour every week; I say I’m a feminist but my issues with men would beg to differ. The list goes on and on, as I have said— I am not perfect. But I am truthful, I am funny, I am smart, I am passionate, I am driven, I am a good writer, thinker, friend, girlfriend, daughter, reader, and feminist; I am pretty exemplary, and I do it all on my own. Just my longchamp, the ghost of Gordon Jones, and me.
An angry rewriting inspired by too many listens to The Tortured Poets Department:
Were you sent by someone who wanted my heart bled?
Do you still keep my secrets underneath your bed?
Were you crafting your own tale?
Leaving me alone, bone dry?
In fifty years, will all your mistakes clarify?
You can throw your hissy fit,
And I'll still say, "Good riddance"
'Cause you lost your allure when you refused admittance.
I would've fought for our bond
But you hated my song.
And you deserve honesty, but it won't be heard.
You'll slide into enemy teams, and slip through my words
You shot up my dreams, you were once my songbird.
You said I was your ‘lifeblood’
Yet you left me for the flood.
But when the ark comes,
He’ll know what you’ve done.
And in plain sight, you hid,
But you are what you did.
And I’ll forgive you, but I won’t forget this:
You’re the smallest girl who ever lived.