It all started for me when I was in the first grade, just six years old I had been then, when I was introduced to the guilty pleasure of life, the sinful, morbid yet so damn delightful task in the entire earth which makes you feel superior even if for a moment. I was introduced, my path was paved, my path to lying, lying obsessively, lying compulsively, lying till I faded away.

Mythomania, a decent name for pathological lying disorder has been identified as a disorder in many of the commoners of the universe, a really heated, rather controversial topic to discuss about even today, I would say. According to Wikipedia, “Although it is a controversial topic, pathological lying has been defined as ‘falsification entirely disproportionate to any discernible end in view, may be extensive and very complicated, and may manifest over a period of years or even a lifetime’.The individual may be aware they are lying, or may believe they are telling the truth. Sometimes however, the individual may be lying to make their life seem more exciting when in reality they believe their life is unpleasant or boring.”

Does that speak all about it? As a pathological liar myself, I know that sometimes those lies just slip out, unconsciously, sub consciously. Yes, even though it started with me deliberately lying, trying to crave attention from my fellow peers, it all started at that tender age, when I should have been the epitome of innocence, with my exemplary behavior and all, when in reality I just became a wholesome liar, lying instantly, without even blinking. Even now, when I start lying on an issue, say maybe to save a friend or to be mediator on any sort of dispute, my surroundings stare at me in utter astonishment, trying to scrutinize me, my irrationalities, trying to survey my moralities, pondering over their honest mind that why would anyone lie to this extent.

Well, let me tell you, let me be honest with you forgetting my dark posture of compulsive lying behavior, let me be truthful with you for as many times as I could, I am a pathological liar. I lie, I lie for my existence, sometimes deliberately, sometimes not knowing the half of it. Lying has been my forte for over years. But just because I do so, do not assume things in vain that I love doing so, because, let me once be honest with you, I do not. I do not love creating a façade of emotions, a façade of recklessness, a façade of my existence. I most certainly do not.

With my disorder, I feel alienated. I’m not even certain whether or not to call it a disorder, because you would ask me to simply give up lying and having a control over my mind, but I cannot, I just cannot do that.

Ever seen a theater mask? With its one lighter and one darker side? With one side reflecting the jovial light and the other the absolute darkness without which the light itself is incomplete? Yes, yes you guessed it right. I am the mask, there are sides to me no one sees. Sides that are honest, sides that are pure, holy as a baby’s mind, but again, just think, I was a baby once, and I lied, this baby wasn’t a truthful one eh? So am I even in the right position to refer to a baby as a holy being, when I wasn’t? Irony, yes it is!

If you think that my subconscious just sputters out lies in random, then you are the most wrong. Even my mind contemplates on whether to lie or not. I take a worse situation, and make it worst, but only in my mind, by lying, it just gets sugarcoated to others, well isn’t that kinda the point of lying? To make it delightful to other people and knowing it in your mind that you’re actually pushing them into a dark chasm of venomous fantasies, a pit of alluring illusions, a centre of lies.

Every time I give into the dark desires of lying, taking the truth to another level, I feel like someone is asking for it, asking to make them feel better by giving my rationalities into lying relentlessly.

On the exterior, people know me as a sweet and timid natured individual, but in the inside, I am as I do. I am the mask you say? Then let be it. Let me be the mask with a light side and a dark, dark as the owl’s ghoulish eyes, let me be the holder of irrelevant personalities, because you don’t know the half of it. You don’t know the feeling of this disorder, the feeling of disdain after lying fluently, helplessly for half of your life, to give in to this helplessness of yours. You don’t.

So perhaps, why judge me?