Touched by loss. Empowered through community.

My Name is Diana...and I am a Liar

Monday, April 21, 2014
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It might sound strange, but sometimes, I feel like I need to confess. For all the secrets I keep, for all the untruths I tell, for all the pretending I do. I feel like I need to attend a 12-step program and admit to what I have done. This is in no way a disrespect to those who have gone through any type of 12-step program. I don’t take it lightly when I make my statement. I just feel like I need to say it out loud, to the world, and admit my guilt. My name is Diana....and I am a liar.

I used to pride myself on being truthful. There are few things more valuable than that. Yes, we all tell occasional “white lies” or “lies of omission” or “half truths” to spare someone’s feelings. You know, the questions that can only end in hurt feelings if you tell the blunt, honest, uncensored truth. The “does this make me look fat?” or “do you like my new haircut?” or “what do you think of my new shoes” types of questions. There is no need to hurt someone for the sake of brutal honesty, is there?  But when it really counted, in the things that mattered, I used to be truthful. I wasn’t a liar. Since becoming a widow, I feel like I am nothing but a big, fat, intentional liar. My name is Diana and I am a liar.

I lie ALL the time about that it’s like to be me, how I am feeling, how I am coping, how I am strong, have moved on, am doing fine. I tell BIG lies about what it’s like to be a solo mom raising two boys alone, how my family and friends treat me, even about how I treat myself. You can’t go around telling people the TRUTH about what it’s like to be a widow/er. They couldn’t handle the truth. They cringe at the thought of imagining what it’s like. It’s unfathomable to think what would happen if you actually informed them, from the horse’s mouth, what the hell it’s like to be us. They would run screaming and never return.

For the worst offenders, I lie to them ALL the time, because they don’t want to know, and they turn away and pretend not to see. With all this acting going on, I should receive an award. “And the award for the biggest liar of the year goes to Diana...liar liar pants on fire.”  I’m quite good at the act of lying. It scares me sometimes. I don’t like this part of me. I don’t like that I have been able to craft my lying in such a way that it is believable to others. There are those that truly SEE me who know otherwise, but to the majority of the public at large, I am something that I am not: Ok. Normal. Functioning. Happy. Careful. Strong. Brave. What I truly am is: Scared. Weary. Lonely. Afraid for my own future. Tired. Hurt. Broken. Lost.

I want to reveal myself to everyone. Lay it all out on the floor and leave nothing left to say. I want to cleanse myself of all my lies and be able to bear it all for the world to see. But I know that this is not possible...there are consequences to that. Once in a while, I find a like-minded person whom I can confide in. Other widow/ers understand the journey and the need to lie. We all have our own reasons for doing it. But I am sure that we all share one thing- we lie to protect those around us from our pain. It’s too hard for us to bear, and we know they would not be able to. I lie to shield them. I tell half-truths, lies of omission, and white lies. I answer, “how are you doing?” with “I’m fine. Hanging in there. Moving forward. Letting go. Feeling stronger.”  Pick any of those or hundreds of others I’ve uttered in the last 5.5 years. They are all lies.  I confess to you, my widowed friends: My name is Diana. I am a widow. I am a liar.  Thanks for listening. It feels good to tell the truth....



It's so comforting to hear someone write about the things that I'm feeling. This couldn't be more true. We wouldn't have understood it before, and we really can't expect them to understand now. You have to have walked in our shoes. That's why our widow community is so incredibly important. XOXO

You are so right. I am only a widow of 1 year and 4 months, but I lie all the time. If you tell people that you cry yourself to sleep sometimes or think you hear their vehicle come up the drive way once in a while, they would give me a name of a psychiatrist. I'm not crazy. I'm just still really really sad. And rightfully so.

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