The owner is a self-professed “make-believe Mormon”.
I read her posts on occasion and this one in particular caught my attention. To be more exact her closing of the post really made me think :
“Looking back, of course, I realise that I was impossibly young. Young, and naive. I felt like this was my only chance at love. In reality, it was just my first time experiencing it. Not that I’m saying it wasn’t something special; it was, but I shouldn’t have been so desperate to make it permanent that I’d ignore important things like, you know, RELIGION.
Live and learn, my friends, live and learn.”
How often do we as human beings “fake it” for the sake of trying to make people we love happy? I’m not just talking of romantic love either. It can be love for a parent, a sibling, a friend, a mentor… it doesn’t matter what kind of love, but I feel as though we’ve all pretended to be interested in things or believed in things to feel like there’s a bond with someone else. To try and make oneself believe that a connection is there whether it exists or does not, we’ll lie to ourselves until it does. But then when does the lie stop? How can we keep fiction from blurring with reality?
Here’s a few pieces of my own truth :
I’ve found myself looking into the eyes of a crush who smiles then says he really enjoys reading Dostoevsky. Transfixed by his crooked grin, I smile back, nod & say, “Me too.” Or a friend I admire who tells me her favorite band is White Town. Never wanting to feel out of the loop I say, “No way! No one I know likes them!” Each time I find myself telling these fibs I think… why in the world would I lie about that? Yet, if I’m to be completely honest these little white lies led me to actually reading Dostoevsky—both The Brothers Karamozov & The Idiot are two of my favorite books. Moreover, White Town’s Your Woman has had a permanent place on my playlist for years.
I guess when I think about it, a lot of those little bits of fiction I spewed happened at a time that I was a lot less sure of who I was and who I wanted to become. Now, those untruths are a bit of a rarity. But in those moments of self-doubt when they spring up like word vomit, how do you keep them from snowballing into faking one’s entire day to day like “The Faker”? How long can a person put up with a life that?
I know enough of myself now that if I don’t like something or believe in something I will no longer pretend that I do. Those small bits of fiction will eventually catch up to me and I would much rather spend my time waiting to meet someone who shares my interests than waiting for a tangled web of lies to unravel. Wouldn’t you?
*** Note : If “The Faker” sounded at all interesting to you, visit her site—her own words are the best description of what she’s all about.