On the news this week, we have been bombarded with reports of Senator Weiner confessing he lied about... well, who really knows what because I'd bet my entire pathetic savings account that there is a lot more he's lied about.
Since that late October night, stories of lying and betrayal seem to haunt me. Each time a new one surfaces, the anger, humiliation, and heartbreak I felt that night, resurface.
I have thought about lying endlessly since that day. To me, it is an art.
Art is defined as the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.
Lie is defined as to express what is false.
Now, there is nothing beautiful in a lie. But, to express such deception to another human being seems to appeal to so many people. It is their work of art. Similar to a drawing or painting or sculpture,the lie is labored over, shaped, changed ever-so-slightly, and morphed into great falsity. Some of them are so splendid, they could hang on a wall somewhere. Both liar and receiver marvel at the false tale, though for different reasons.
The liar becomes so good at it, he lies again and again, perfecting his art. And with that comes the greed of a lie, and then you are left with... nothing.
Within the word lie are ramifications and flaws and terror and humiliation and power. I would soon understand them all.
The following October morning, while our children watched way too many silly cartoons, I looked deep into my husband's eyes and searched for truth. Who? What? When? Why? How? Like a good investigator, all the right questions were asked. All the answers given back to me were lies.
I know that now, several years later. At the time, those deep brown eyes, that steady voice, the controlled posture of a man I'd loved for nearly fifteen years, made art. I could not do anything but believe.
It was humiliating to think this was where my marriage had ended up. We agreed not to tell our families, thinking that if we recovered from this, our families may not. We agreed not to tell anymore friends. In fact, he never told any of his. Eventually, I told a few more girlfriends. You can't lie to girlfriends.
It was terrifying to think that all I'd known for the past fifteen years teetered on the edge of destruction. I looked at my children and wondered what they would do without a mom and dad in the same house. I asked my husband if he wanted them to live in a house where their daddy didn't love their mommy. He cried and said he didn't want that for them. But, I never asked if that was how he really felt, because I wasn't ready to hear the answer. For that moment, a lie was fine.
Over the next six months, a power arose in me. At first, I thought it was a power to rebuild my marriage. But, it wasn't. It was a power to rebuild me.
This post is dedicated to Sam. May she never hear a lie again, and may her power continue to rise in her.
