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The Freedom of Brutal Honesty

Lying is Powered by Fear

The first time I can remember telling a lie was to my mother when I was five. My father had a Vicks inhaler on his dresser that I innocently happened upon one day. I had never seen anything like this before. Being curious, I picked it up and pulled the cap off. I didn’t know how it use it properly and I didn’t really know its purpose, but it smelled good, so I put it my pocket and made it mine. Later that day, my mother asked me if I had seen the inhaler. I instantly froze. I didn’t know if I was in trouble or not. I hesitated and then I said, “No.” There it was. A lie. Why did I lie? I assumed my mother’s question meant taking the inhaler was a bad thing. Admitting to taking it, therefore, made me bad. Being bad would have made me unlovable in my mind and I couldn’t bare not being loved by my mother, so I lied. …

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