Friday, May 31, 2013

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

whominions

I got thinking today, while reading bad fan fiction and watching even worse horror movies, that I’ve gotten pretty damn good at lying.

It’s always been there, of course. You don’t grow up as fucked up as I am and not learn to lie as a coping mechanism. I’ve just never been particularly good at it.

The wild stories and the promise not to tell anyone. Writing in a diary to keep track of the stories. Watching some of them have a life of their own. Watching a few of them actually become the truth.

My life has become a series of lies lately.

The pain and pleasure of the job interview circuit…

Why were you laid off? Why did you leave this position? Why should I hire you?

Lie. Lie. Lie.

If I tell the truth, you’ll know my big secret… you can’t know my secret. You’ll use it against me. So I make shit up. It’s not really a lie. It’s a minor stretching of the truth. I need to hide the bipolar. So I lie and pretend I’m fine.

Except for when I can’t lie and pretend I’m fine:

Describe how you deal with stress: I pop an ativan and hide in the bathroom, crying. Oh, no… wait. I take a deep breath, put on my big girl panties and plow through. I don’t get stressed. Stress is for pussies! I make stress my bitch… it’s never the other way around. Except that it ALWAYS is and I wind up popping an ativan and hiding in the bathroom.

Describe a time when a coworker made you angry and how you reacted: I screamed and yelled like a crazy person and then kicked him in the nuts. Wait, I meant to say that I popped an ativan, went into the bath… oh fuck. I took a deep breath, put on my big girl panties, and told him that this conversation… no. I popped an ativan and hid in the bathroom.

Describe an average day for you: Well, first I wake up hating myself. Then I think about how nice it would be if my heart would just keep it’s promise to kill me. Or maybe I should start getting drunk before I leave the house. Never mind… I bounce out of bed ready to start the day, mainline some coffee and… fuck it. I pop an ativan and hide in the bathroom until I absolutely positively can’t put off leaving any longer.

Wow. I sound like an addict, don’t I? Maybe that’s why I call my psych drug prescriber my drug dealer.

Seriously, it’s not really that bad. I don’t use the ativan as a crutch. That would be stupid.

However, when there’s a question on an application about being disabled (if it’s worded correctly, it’s legal. There’s a very fine line, though.), I’m always tempted to check “yes” and write in big letters “I’M SO FUCKED IN THE HEAD, YOU’RE GOING TO END UP WISHING THAT YOU HIRED SOMEONE WHO ISN’T BIPOLAR AND HEAVILY MEDICATED FOR YOUR PROTECTION.”

But instead, I take a deep breath, put on my big girl panties, pop an ativan and hide in the bathroom.

(Oh, black humour, I’d be so lost without you…)