The Truth The Whole Truth and Nothing but The Truth

I wanted a reason.

A reason to feel this pain within my body.

From the moment I started hating,
and I never knew why;
why I was afraid and when it all started.

I couldn't tell you.

There's this thing,
inside my head,
that says it's easier to lie
than to tell the truth.

As my fingers go numb and my mouth shakes;
I need to say it all.

Everything.

Come to terms that I.
Am a compulsive liar.

Because my life,
is too utterly plain
and there's no reason for me to be sad.

Alas,
there is.

I hurt.
At the fact my father choked me.
I fear.
At the words my mother likes to spread.
I shake.
At the almost insignificant moments that affected me.

When his fist clipped my ear,
the look in those eyes;
his snaking voice that never invaded me.

Half of the things about myself,
I say.

Are lies.

That's my flaw.
My stupid head.

Because I don't understand.
Why I am in fear of men.
Maybe it was what happened in summer school.
How my 'friends' put their hands on my thighs.
Because of how I dressed.
You know that 'story'.

It's true.

That girl I once loved;
my first love.
Wasn't a love at all.
She,
a thing,
hurt me.

Put her hands inside.
And me.
And my mind.
Didn't want to believe it.

So. To keep myself. From hating her.
I blamed a boy.
A boy who I thought I would never come into contact with again.
And I hate myself.
For it.

I hate the way I lie.
To cover the truth.

I DON'T know if anything bad happened to me.
My therapist wonders too.
I have always been depressed.
The things that HAVE happened--made it worse.

The girl.
Those boys.
That man.

He did follow me.
Slice a knife through my hair.
Whisper words in my ear.
Saying lies.

Like I lied.

My friend, who was raped, I saw she had reasons to be sad.
I didn't want her to be quiet because I COULDN'T tell.
I wanted her to shut up because she had a reason.

I didn't.

What? Oh, I was molested. Yeah. I know.

But.

It makes me angry. And scared. Makes. Me.

Blame and lie.

To everyone.

Because I know the truth.
I'm ashamed of it.
But. I'm getting help.

And. I'm crying.

Not because I was hurt.
Because I lie.

I like lying.
Helps me, live something worth being sad about.

It fills in that blank space I have in my head,
it makes sense--right?

Until now.
When...
I know.
You know.
Everyone knows I'm a liar.

You're the first to say it.
I cried those nights,
not because I was fighting some guy away.
Because I was fighting that girl away.

With you,
I let myself be afraid and express what I never did.

Maybe I'm so sad BECAUSE I lie.
Because I always have.

Everyone around me had reasons to be sad.
So.
Why didn't I?

Why did I have to live with wanting to die,
only because I've felt a few touches.
I didn't get it.
I didn't get me.

Anyone here,
who knows me,
who knows these lies,
will hate me.

One will say "I told you so"
Another will say "Oh, that's okay"
The last will ask "Why?"

Though this entire thing is a 'why'.

It's a truth.
I haven't lied since November.
I won't lie.

I refuse to let anyone else be hurt.
Because I am so... Small.
That I can't accept,
or I have but still don't express.

I'm pathedic.
Thinking back.
I like forgetting.
And telling myself things.
That make sense.

Because this is my life:

I was born in a nice home.
My father had anger issues, but 'resolved' them as time grew.
My mother is fake, and wants everything to be perfect.
This couple raising me, I grew to my first trauma.
Kids made fun of me and I saw red, saw things other kids didn't.
I was bullied and no one ever cared, but I kept getting hurt.
My first boyfriend; sweet but short tempered.
He made me feel like nothing, like my first kiss didn't matter.
His fist grazed my ear and made my nerves think badly.
We moved to where I live now, met a girl.
She was my best friend; soon after we 'dated'.
But things went down hill when she forced me; it hurt and she ignored my cries.
She did this everytime I slept over, but I took it past the tears.
We broke up and with it my mind cracked.
I tried to kill myself three times but they all failed, obviously.
As I grew up, I hated everything because no one noticed.
Mother didn't notice the stains, or the feeling alone.
My hallucinations went away after that; I was by myself in all of it.
That's when I started lying.
Freshman year.
With the smoking and drinking.
After the boys had their fun up my skirts.
After I tried to forget--
But I couldn't.
I couldn't forget anything they did.
The way it made me feel.
So. I lied.
It was easy.

I found it was easier to lie, to make something up that was worse so people couldn't say "Deal with it", than to tell the truth.
My mother knows the truth. The one right here.
So does my father.

And that's that.
The truth.
That I lie.
But I'm stopping now.
I can't do it anymore.
I won't.

So, I, can't say sorry.
Lying helped me.
A sorry, won't take back anything, it never does.

But now you know,
the truth. The whole truth. Nothing but the truth.

(Even if you don't believe me, because I've never given you reason to.)