The Diary of a Pathological Liar.

I am an awful person. I know this very well. I am not a good person. Why, you may ask? Well: I am a liar. I am a filthy, filthy liar. I am a monster for what I’ve done. What have I done? Many things. I’ve lied about being assaulted, having asthma, hearing certain things, and so much more. 

I am a pathological liar. 

I feel joy in lying successfully. I very rarely am not believed. Why? Because I’m good at it. I gotten so, SO good at it. I am a master of lying. I quite literally cannot help it. I would say it feels like someone else is doing it, but that would be a lie too. I know it’s me doing it. That’s the best and worst part. Best, you ask? Because it’s me. I lied to them and only I know this. I might die with this secret. I, solely, tricked this stupid person into believing that this sweet, innocent little girl would do nothing wrong. I tricked this imbecile into thinking that I am perfect. Little do they know that I am, in fact, an awful person. A liar. Worst, you ask again? Because it’s me. I lied to them. Why did I do that? I didn’t need to. It was so unnecessary. No one else lied to them, it was all me. 

I have convinced even myself that it’s all true. Am I ill? I don’t know. Maybe. Can I fix it? Probably not. Will I ever tell the truth? Hell no. It feels too good to lie. I get so much attention! The asthma and panic attacks? The nightmares? Hell, I don’t even have asthma! If I pass out in a crowd, I know that the next day, I will be loved and cherished. I know damn well no one will love me any other way.

I run from this idea, and yet I embrace it. “No, of course I didn’t lie! How could I lie about something like that? That would be so awful! I am not a bad person!” And yet, “I lied to them. I did it. The worst act I can think of. And I did it perfectly. They trust me.” I feed off this trust. I can’t tell you why. Because I’m an awful person.

That’s why I lie.

I can’t tell when I’m lying and when I’m not anymore. The bounds of reality and lies have bled together into one muddy color. Sometimes I forget that only I know I’ve lied. Only me in a 7.8 billion populous knows. I forget that. I can’t describe it. I just have to remind myself that only I know. Maybe I think God knows? Or aliens? Or maybe that’s my mind keeping myself from going mad. The day I accept this is the day I will be destroyed. My web of lies will come crashing down.

Despite my fear of spiders, I am a lot like a black widow. I lure people in with something them desire — a relationship, my body, my mind, anything. Then, I almost give it to them. Then, I’ll kill them. Figuratively, of course. I’ll cut them off once I’ve gotten what I wanted or I’ll keep going to continually get what I want until it no longer interests me. I am a parasite. A spider. A succubus. Whatever you want. to call it.

I am an awful person.