Be wary of the truths we hold most dear.
Look closely at beliefs that seem unquestionable.
There may hide the loudest lies.

—

I often do this thing, where I find something to believe in, and I start to build on it. I form these seemingly solid rationales and cling to them. I tell myself something is so fundamentally true, that I forget how false it is at its core. I bury lies I don’t want to face under layers of new lies I prefer the sound of.

—

"I’m over competition.”

I say it often. Why play a game of deathmatch when we can do the co-op campaign? Why in business do we have to fight like dogs over customers, when we could work together, improve the products we're selling, and help more people?

But do I really hate competition? Or do I just hate losing?
Because I do love winning.

Being good at things is my thing. Growing up, I wasn't the coolest, funniest, or biggest kid (which really got to me at the time). But if you're picking teams for soccer: I'm your guy. I carved a niche for myself and tied my self-worth to how I performed—at everything.

Even if I don’t know who I’m competing with, it’s a competition.

When I'm not positive I can win—I don't play. I can't lose if I don't engage.
I'll just pick something different, something I can win at.

I've been playing this game of ego-protection my whole life.
I might just be the best at it.

I don't hate competition. I crave competition. I need the opportunity to establish my worth. I need you to know I'm the best. I need to convince myself I'm the best. What else could you love about me aside from my performance?

I hate losing. I hate knowing I'm a failure. I hate the reminder that I'm worthless. I hate the shame. I hate the notion that I'll soon be alone once everyone realizes I have nothing to offer.

And I really, really hate that narrative. I don't want to face this. This is so much uglier than: "cooperation is the way of the future."

I would much prefer to be ABOVE competition than a slave to it.

—

And so I lie. I rewrite the narrative and give myself more noble intentions. I simply tell a story I can get behind and ignore my issues.

—

"To hell with growth."

I take a firm stance against the idea that things—businesses especially—have to grow indefinitely. What's wrong with a modest living? Can't we just be happy with how good things are right now? Why can't this be good enough?

Applied narrowly, I can get behind this, and so I fool myself into thinking I believe it broadly.

In truth, I'm never satisfied. Everything always needs to move, improve, escalate.

My writing needs to get better. It needs to reach more people. It needs to make more money.
I lie when I say I do it for myself or for the sake of the art.

My relationships need to progress. I need to get closer. The intensity needs to grow.

I need to get stronger.
I need to be braver.
I need to share more.
I need to commit more.
I need to be more enlightened.

I need to get places. Where I am is never enough. Only in very fleeting moments am I ever able to appreciate the moment.

My "Here. Now." tattoo? It's a daily reminder of the lie I tell myself. I live in a future where things are (and I am) bigger and better.

—

But I don't think about those examples. I limit what I consider to things that reinforce the lie I want to believe. I allow a confirmation bias to cloud the truth I hide.

—

"I am in control."

I believe I can do anything. If I grit my teeth and focus my ass off, anything is possible. Everything is a construct of my mind. Through willpower and logical arguments, I can reshape the way I see the world—reshape my whole reality. Depression is a mindset I can think my way out of. Pain, sadness, jealousy, shame—everything is a matter of perspective; all can be shifted if I simply change my mind.

I've thought this for years. I've really believed I had control. And when I languish in shitty situations, I'm simply not exercising the control that I absolutely could wield. I'll get around to it. When I decide it's time, I'll engage myself and will my way to happiness.

This is my loudest lie.

My mind is a darker place, and the devil who lives there is more creative, relentless, patient, and powerful than I thought.

He's in control.

Steven Pressfield calls it resistance. I call it the devil. It keeps me from what I actually want to do—the things I dream of in (rare) clear-headed moments.

The devil and I wrestle for control every minute of every day.

When I lie about the nature of our struggle, and about the control I don’t have, I lose.
But I continue to lie because the devil lies, and I honestly can’t tell who’s who.

So I believe it. I believe that tomorrow I’ll seize the reigns and turn the tide on the war in my head.

It’s easier to believe the lie that I have everything I need to succeed and that tomorrow’s my day, than it is to ask for help.

—

Lies are comforting. Well-crafted ones can create a nice bubble for us to live in. We can get by. There might be a nagging "something's not right" every so often, but we can lie our way around that as well.

Facing the lies sucks.

We've been lying for so long. Admitting them means facing years of shame. I feel weak for letting them get so out of hand; like a coward for refusing to acknowledge them; like a fool for believing them.

Unearthing them reveals a choice—or rather: a series of choices. Do I fight the lie? Or do I let it creep back in? Letting it back in is the easy choice. Seeing the lie for what it is will be enough for a day at most. Then it will change shape slightly and we won't recognize it, or we'll simply forget its face.

Fighting it means vigilance. Every day we need to create enough space to ask what is driving each of the thousand decisions we make.

But it’s worth the fight.

The lies are anchors. I’m stuck acting shit out based on issues I developed twenty years ago, and I’ll continue doing it forever unless I fight.

“The truth will set you free.”

I apologize. It’s so lame. But tracing back the lies and confronting the truth we’re trying to hide is the first step to an honest life.