But every year or two, at least, something triggers inside of me. A deep and hidden insecurity or fear is poked hard in its belly, and I tell some stupid, ridiculous, big, fat, bald-faced lie.
I’m still shaking my head at my last one. Looking back, it was so stupid. I can’t even fully understand why I told it. I just know that I did. And I learned some things about myself.
It was in the wake of my recent surgery.
My healing was taking so much longer than I anticipated. For a few weeks, I was in severe pain, had no energy, and was unable to focus on much of anything. The biggest hit was to my child, who was used to having a very involved, loving Dad when we’re together. I knew it was weighing on him that Dad wasn’t his old, chipper self. He was becoming more defeated and enjoying his time with me less as the days rolled on. Having him there was hard. I kept trying to dive into being a good dad again, faster than I should, and it kept setting me back in my healing. I became irritable. He became irritable. It wasn’t a fun time.
It all started breaking my heart. I knew in my heart of hearts that I really needed time without him to let myself rest and heal. But… THAT’S NOT ME. NO WAY. THIS DAD NEVER SKIPS OUT. THIS DAD IS ALWAYS THERE. THIS DAD DOESN’T THINK OF HIMSELF FIRST.
Please note my yelling. It is important I emphasize that to me, being an incredible dad to my son is perhaps the greatest force that drives me and defines me. I have never skipped out on time with my kid, and if something really important has come up, I’ve always made up for it later. I don’t share this for any reason than to note that this is an extremely deep-rooted ideology for me, and it is extremely important to me that his mother always sees it and knows it as well. As long as Noah, she, and I always know that, then not much else matters to me.
But there I was. Needing to skip out. Just one day. I had an organic break from my kiddo coming in two days time, but I needed a break then. Like, immediately.
Before I even realized I had typed it, I had sent off a text with a big, fat, bald-faced lie. I made up something so extreme and with such a story that it couldn’t be questioned and shouldn’t be questioned. Someone had died. There was a memorial the next day. I had just found out. I had to go. Bla bla bla.
All I really wanted was to stay in home. In bed. And heal.
The thing is, Noah’s mom would have been 100% totally cool with that. She would have understood. All I had to say was the truth.
But it was the current me, talking. It was my current giant insecurity. I didn’t currently like something about myself, so I assumed that the same dislike and harsh judgments coming from me, about me, would automatically come from anyone else.
And because of that, I lied. Me. The super-honest, integrity-filled human being that I believe I am, lied.
It may seem like it should fit in the realm of white lies. No. It was a big, fat, bald-faced lie. I gave detail after detail to back the lie up.
Now, I don’t know if I just sucked at lying, or if I oversold the lie, or if the lie was just transparent, but his mom was on it like a bloodhound on a fresh scent.