Why We Have A Problem With Hearing The Truth

Over winter break I forced – practically dragged – my mom into the car and drove to the nearest movie theater to see a movie. It’s possible that she hadn’t seen one in theaters since "Legally Blonde" came out, which was 15 years ago and will probably make you feel super old.

The movie I made her see was "The Big Short." The gist of it is that these guys predict the 2007 financial crisis and save themselves from financial damnation. I didn’t just want to see it because it starred Christian Bale, who I have a huge crush on, but because I’m genuinely into boring things like hedge funds and swindling people out of their money.

The biographical comedy met my high expectations and there were only a few scenes that were uncomfortable to watch with my mom sitting next to me. She only cringed a couple times, probably wondering when I became so comfortable with “immorality.”

In between scenes, there were quotes across the screen that introduced the next segment of the story, but the only one that I remember profoundly was, “‘the truth is like poetry, and most people f--king hate poetry.’ - Overheard in a Washington D.C bar.” That one stuck with me, despite my mildly lame love for poetry.

This past weekend I was talking to a close friend about my trivial, teen-girl struggles and when I stopped talking, he didn’t say anything for a second, then took a deep breath.

“You know, I think your problem is that you gravitate towards people who have psychiatric disorders (or) emotional baggage because they’re easy to manipulate,” he said.

He said this with a straight face and not an ounce of hesitation. I don’t think I was surprised by how blunt he was with me, but more-so by how he might have been right. What he said might have been true, and I hated that. I didn’t like hearing it largely because he was making me out to be some sort of monster instead of coddling or sympathizing with me. If this gravitational pull does exist in me, I would have preferred to hear that I have that attraction because I like to help people, but that wasn’t the verdict he delivered to me. He told me what he thought, instead of what I wanted to hear. I’m someone who is more than okay with constructive criticism, but because this was something I’d never considered, I was taken aback.

Truth is a scary thing. I think we’re afraid of the truth in part because as children we’re fed lies. Then you reach a certain age, maybe 16, maybe 20, and the universe expects you to spend our valuable young adult years unlearning the lies that our parents, teachers, and other authority figures fed us.

I promise that this is my last movie reference, but in "Fight Club," Tyler Durden says something that rings true to anyone my age.

“We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars," he said. "But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.”

If you can’t relate to this, then your parents are everything I hope to be if I’m ever a mother: honest. I’m sure my five-year-old self didn’t necessarily need to hear that I would never be a professional ice skater, but some straightforwardness earlier in my life definitely would have made the sound of the truth a little less daunting.

We’re insanely unfamiliar with honesty because we’re afraid of both the truth and hurting each other’s feelings (or each other’s wrath; my wrath was not released upon hearing that I’m attracted to “crazies."* I was too stunned to react anyway.) Most people don’t lie just for the sake of lying. We’re usually protecting someone or covering our own asses and that’s human nature. Unfortunately, white-lies are included in this spiel.

Emily Dickinson once said in a lame poem that I may or may not love, “tell the truth, but tell it slant."

Emily Dickinson is a liar, and she is also dead. Are you picking up what I’m putting down? (Lying→ Death.) Lately, I don’t think I can truthfully say that I’ve gone more than a day without telling a white-lie. And like I said, we don’t do just do it because it’s fun. We stretch the truth because sometimes it’s the polite thing to do.

I’m the queen of, “I didn’t see your text, my phone was on silent!” My phone might have been on silent, but I most definitely saw your text and chose not to answer for a number of reasons. At the end of the day, it’s easier to say that you weren’t with your phone, opposed to, “No. I don’t want to get lunch with you.” If you're a perfect friend who isn't guilty of this, good for you. What if we change the scenario to not answering your mom's phone calls because you were in "class?" We all do it.

Therein lies the problem – just because we conceal or omit the truth doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. No matter how brutal, truth is essential to productive and authentic dialogue. When we lie to each other, we alter one another’s perception of both parties, and also of the situation. On the other hand, when we tell things like they are, we’re giving the other person the right to truth and our trust. My friends that come across as harsh are the ones I value the most. I know that when I ask them if I’m making a bad choice, even if I want to be told that I’m not, they’ll tell me how they really feel about the situation. By doing that they’re building their trust with me. You’ve got to admire the bravery of a friend that tells you that your outfit is less than flattering. I’ve been on both ends of the situation and the Instagram-worthy pics make up for the minute of awkwardness that comes as a result of being blunt.

Written by MaryFrances Dagher