I never told the truth as a kid

And why your kid is lying too

“Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth.” - Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat Pray Love

The truth. What a luxury.

From a young age, the concept floored me. What exactly is the truth?

My mom, struggling to get by financially, embarrassed and ashamed because once again she is being pulled aside by the doctor’s office: the bill has not been settled by the children’s father.

My dad, building a law firm from the ground up, convinced my mother is once again taking us to the doctor for no good reason, racking up the account for every sniffle, with no consideration for the financial pressure that he is under.

Both are true. Yet both cancel each other out for me, in the middle. Who to protect, who to defend? It depends on the day, really.

The truth was a privilege that I was not entitled to.

A kid of divorce is entitled to two homes, two sets of rules, two families.

There is very little room in that dynamic to make up your own mind about your own beliefs and truths. Instead, it’s a delicate balancing act of survival. It’s not about the truth, it’s about how you paint the picture.

If you need new school shoes, that’s a fact. Do you just arrive at your dad’s house and blurt out that you need new school shoes, thus starting an inevitable rant about how your mother doesn’t pay for anything? No ways.

You dance around the subject delicately, finding an opportune moment to bring it up in the least inflammatory way possible. You find the perfect chance: your dad takes you to the shops and offers to buy you new sandals.

“Actually, could I have school shoes instead?”

“School shoes?” He asks.

“Yes,” you fumble over your words, “Everyone is getting these cool new kinds and I’d really like a pair too!”

There is no cool new kind. Just the regular kind. You take him over the school shoe shelf.

“These look pretty regular to me,” he says.

“No, they have this cool new cushioning and the heels are different, see?” You lie and lie and lie.

“Okay,” your dad says looking perplexed, “You really want new school shoes instead of a cool new pair of sandals?”

Yes, you nod vehemently. Oh the sweet relief. You might just get away with this drama-free. No need for him to ever know that your mom tasked you with asking him for new school shoes. Fight avoided. School shoes secured.

When you return home, school shoes in your bag, your mom is pleased. You are relieved. Tension diverted.

Your mom says she wants to call your dad to thank him for getting the school shoes. Your stomach immediately drops. If she says anything on that call about how you needed those shoes, your lie will be obvious. He will know that your whole story about the school shoes being cool was all just a ruse to push your mother’s agenda, as well as your own. Because let’s be real, they aren’t going to let you into school without shoes and your mom isn’t going to buy them for you.

You lie again, “Don’t call him mom, he is pretty stressed out at work at the moment. He didn’t really even help with the shoes, he just gave me the money to run in while he was on a work call.”

“Well that’s not very good,” she bristles, “He could at least have come in with you. I think I should talk to him about that.”

“No!” You shout desperately, “Please just leave it!” Your insides are in knots, your lie has now gotten out of hand and you can’t walk it back. You are about to be caught out from all sides.

The truth teller’s role is not an easy one. There’s a reason why they say: don’t shoot the messenger.

To tell the truth means that you need to be willing to stand tall and strong in the face of the reactions that come from that truth, without swaying, without flinching and, most importantly, without taking responsibility or bending to those reactions.

For a kid in the middle though, it’s an impossibility. It’s a betrayal of one parent or the other.

Lie and survive.

Tell the truth and perish.