I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.
(Ponyboy speaking in The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton p. 18).
How true this is, eh? We convince ourselves all the time of things that aren’t necessarily so, in order to function.
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“She loves me, even though she keeps saying she wants a divorce.”
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“The cancer won’t spread.”
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“I don’t need to do up my seatbelt.”
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“I’ll never get in an accident.”
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“It won’t matter if I have one more drink.”
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“The kids won’t remember I wasn’t there like I said I would be.”
We tell the lies to ourselves, but we don’t really believe them, so they niggle in the back of our minds, making us feel snappish and guilty. We could be better, but we aren’t. Preservation requires a little self-delusionment. What happens when we are faced with the whole truth? Can we find a new way of being?
Shawn L. Bird 