Secrets and Lies

We all have secrets. Some of them are kept because we are ashamed or embarrassed about an episode in our own lives or in the distant past, while others are like tiny treasures we hold close to the chest because they belong to no one else. Having them, I believe, is a normal, healthy part of being human, and the universality of this need to keep certain parts of our identities and experiences private is evident by the success of PostSecret, for example.

Likewise, we all lie. At times, they are omissions or stretched stories to protect ourselves or those we care about, while others do so to seek, gain, and maintain advantages. I don’t believe humans can completely avoid lying, although making it a regular practice likely creates more problems than it solves and demands a high level of concentration, dedication, and memory to maintain over a long period of time. I have no such skills, frankly, and it’s a large reason I don’t bother to make a habit of it.

It has been a year of lies and secrets around me, and at its core, one despicable human being appropriated the photos of another person and created an identity through which she caused a lot of emotional damage to a small circle of friends. The ripple effects of her horrendous actions have been great, and some friendships are in tatters as a result of her choice to invade and destroy lives; a few have cooled, been altered, while others still have been strengthened.  I can’t speak to the reasons for her behaviour because there were so many lies piled one on top of the other in everything she did and said, right down to the explanations and excuses that were offered after she was caught and unmasked. All I can surmise is that she is surely mentally unwell to have derived pleasure from convincing others that she was real, and engaging them socially and romantically, creating tight bonds in a few cases. It takes a special kind of sadist to reel people in with imaginary illnesses and stories of abuse; to include four unsuspecting random children to the fairytale brings the level of sociopathy to heights I can’t even fathom. The best thing I ever did, last November, was to dig into the matter like a determined detective and expose the identity fraud for  the sick game it was.

Except, I didn’t actually do that. Instead of sharing my findings with the affected circle of friends, I lied to protect the one she had hurt the most. I only shared my information with him, worried about how embarrassed or ashamed he might be feeling despite my own rage and hurt and my strong sense that she was dangerous, unstable, and might possibly harm any one of us further. At some point in the spring, my fear of her future behaviour overtook my wanting to protect him, and anger that I was holding a secret for someone who not only didn’t appreciate the gesture of loyalty but also felt no need to warn our circle of the risk she posed bubbled under the surface until I blew up. I told some of our friends though not all of them; with one in particular, I gave that task to his other trusted pal because I just couldn’t find the words or way to do it. Predictably, my friendship with the biggest victim of this fraudulent friend ended by his choice to move on and put it behind him. While I regretted the falling out, I thought the story would end there and that life would just carry on as before: awkwardly at first, as we all figured out how to interact in a civil manner, but eventually cordial. That’s what moving on means to me, and I accepted how it had unfolded. 

This concept of fully moving on is not possible, sadly, when secrets and lies converge and someone has a pressing need to silence you and discredit you to protect themselves and the carefully constructed secret life they have led. In the past two months, from the periphery of our mutual circle, I’ve watched the results of his manipulation skills escalate the negative behaviour of someone I once considered a fairly good friend; not super tight or with the long history they have shared together, but certainly close enough that we sometimes socialized and shared some stories and confidences. Close enough that he helped me with creative endeavours and that I returned the favour in any way I could. Close enough that we could email and text each other if there was a need. Close enough that I consulted him for details of my current novel because of his specialized knowledge. Suddenly, in two short months, I was slowly ostracized, then teased and obliquely referred to in derogatory terms that baffled me as much as they hurt me. My reaction to the final round of insults was to leave the toxic situation behind and reluctantly remove him from my circle. Certain friends watched as it happened and, disgusted and horrified to an even greater degree than I was, walked away with me. It was the healthiest decision I have made this year for my emotional health, and I’m honestly relieved to no longer be in the middle of the barbed comments and veiled insinuations. 

Why am I writing this, then, if I’ve moved on? Fair question and one I can easily answer. I want to put this dog to bed and give myself closure, and I can’t do that if I honour the lies and sick innuendoes with my continued silence. I can keep the secrets, and have done so to a greater degree than anyone involved in the toxic banter can appreciate. I forgive easily and it is not in my nature to willfully hurt others, and despite being given ample reasons to exact the most cruel and devastating revenge, I’ve not seriously considered it for more than a few seconds before dismissing the notion. It’s not just that innocent people would be destroyed along with those who have treated me so shabbily; unlike the liars in question, I don’t have the same issues of mental instability and sociopathic or narcissistic tendencies and don’t equate a falling out with a need to become aggressive towards those who are no longer friends. That level of hate and bile is beyond my scope of emotions, frankly.  That said, I refuse to accept the lies and the bullying that has gone on, and call it out right here and right now for what it was. How people can live with themselves for perpetuating such harm on others, I will never understand, because I am not capable of that kind of cruelty, and I’ll leave that for their therapists to uncover and dissect with them. I don’t expect this to change the relationships in question because unlike Game of Thrones, the dead don’t come back. I just wanted to add my own voice to the chorus of voices that have spoken truly or falsely for me.

Time to close the door now. After all, winter is coming.