Lies And The Liars Who Spread Them

Lies And The Liars Who Spread Them

"No, I didn't. Sorry to burst that bubble, bud."
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I can't stand liars.

I know I'm preaching to the choir when I say that, considering we're all one the same page here. No one likes liars. Nobody has the patience or time to deal with people who cannot be honest. Throughout my almost 21 sober years on Earth, a solid 90% of the issues I've had to deal with revolve around lies and the liars who spread them.

I don't want to come off as holier than thou. I have made countless mistakes and some of them include lying. I'm not proud of that. However, this stemmed from the prospect of being in "trouble." As a kid, and really before I became a teenager, I couldn't handle "trouble." I'd lie to prevent getting in trouble and since I'm horrendously bad at lying I gave it up real quick. I was incredibly fortunate to have been raised in an atmosphere that encouraged truthfulness and honesty. When I was honest, I wasn't met with harshness but with fondness and compassion and I am so grateful for it. I know that too many were not as fortunate as I was.

So here we are, third year in college, nearly 21 years old, and I'm still dealing with liars.

You'd think that once you escalate to college level sociability that you'd wise up and keep your mouth shut when you have nothing good or worthwhile to say.

Someone at the college I attend, who I've had to formally talk to twice, has spread a rumor that I suffered from a stroke due to the way I look. The only consensus I can come to regarding why anyone would say that is that I either intimidated him or festered his insecurities. If I did, I'd like him to let me know.

But of course, I'm never going to find that out.

Lying is a result of cowardliness.

This gentleman's life is so uneventful that he took it upon himself to spread a rumor so vile to make it seem as if he was looking out for me since I was suffering from such a horrific medical trauma. But it's completely false. Needless to say, I probably wouldn't be able to type out something like this if what he said had to be true.

Call me thin-skinned and you may be right. I can take my fair share of punches, but this is just uncalled for. What's worse is that if there's one person going through something like this, in this case myself, than there is ten. If there's ten there's one hundred... and it keeps going.

I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. I also have some sympathy for those who spread these rumors, too, because there's obviously something lacking in their lives.

All I want is for people to pay it forward. Be nice. When you have nothing nice to say about someone just save your breath. Call me petty to hark on what's happened to me and again you may be very well right, but I'm using it as an example because falsehoods, lies, and rumors are a real problem for too many. We need to foster a community of truthfulness and honesty now more than ever. College, high school, life, is way too stressful to have to keep reminding people of the truth when they should know it from the get go.

Cover Image Credit: Warner Bros. Television Distribution

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An Open Letter To The Judgmental People In My Hometown

Imperfections are what gives a diamond its value.
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Dear judgemental, simple minded people from my hometown,

I am sorry that I have never met your level of perfection.

Coming from a small town, everyone settles to the norm of the people around them. Unlike you all, I have always been a little bit different.

I've never understood why everyone always seems to feel the need to talk down to the next person. People love to gossip about a situation as long as the situation has nothing to do with them. For every move I made, someone was always there to bring out the negativity in the situation. You all are always sweeping around somebody else's doorstep when I know your doorstep is not clean. Maybe it is time to buy a new broom. I know that I cannot please everybody and that I will also not be liked by everybody. However, I deserve respect just as the next person.

SEE ALSO: Forgiving Someone Who Didn't Ask For It

I hope for the sake of the future generations of our small town, you all can learn to be more accepting to change.

I hope that no one judges your children like some of you all have judged me. I hope that the people that you love and care about are welcomed and accepted for who they are.

If we put as much time into being better people or helping others like you put into judging others, the world would be a much better place.

Imperfections are what gives a diamond its value. Pebbles are perfectly round. I'd much rather be a diamond, one in a million, than a pebble that fits in.

Sincerely,

The one whose every move you criticize

Cover Image Credit: Haley Williamson

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A Day In The Life Of A College Student Who Has Anxiety

You know it isn't a big deal, but your anxiety doesn't.

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You wake up an hour earlier than you meant to, and you know you'll be falling asleep halfway through your first class of the day, but you can't sleep now. Not since you've seen that your alarm will be going off in an hour anyway. You can already feel the twisting in your stomach, the anticipatory anxiety as you contemplate your plans for the day.

You climb out of bed and walk over to your dresser, where you keep the bottle of pills that keep you from having panic attacks between classes. The medication really does help sometimes, but it's hard to suppress something like anxiety. All you have to do is let yourself think about anything—a certain person, a plan you made with a friend, a memory, even a song. Boom, your stomach hurts and you feel those familiar trills in your chest, the jitters in your fingers, the numbness that makes you think maybe you're going to have a heart attack this time.

You take the pill with a couple sips of water, then get dressed. Your outfit for the day is already lying out on the top of the dresser—you can't fall asleep at night until you've got everything ready for the morning. You leave your residence hall 45 minutes before your first class. Not because you plan on getting breakfast (you can't eat in the mornings because anxiety turns your stomach into what feels like a vat of boiling acid), but because you're too anxious to show up to class right on time. What if you fall on the way? What if a sidewalk is closed? What if the bus doesn't show up? There are too many variables for you to justify leaving anything to chance.

You are tired when you get to your class building, but you can't just grab a cup of coffee. That caffeine would turn you into even more of a mess, and that isn't what you need today. You're all too familiar with the chest pain and trembling that comes along with caffeinated drinks. Just water for you today.

Once class starts (30 minutes after you reach the classroom), you feel okay. Finally, a reprieve from the feeling that you're either going to vomit or experience a chest explosion. Obviously, you prepared for class. Your homework is done, although the quality of your work really depends on how bad your anxiety was when you did it—did you spend time really trying to comprehend the work, or did you just do it as quickly as you could so you could tick that assignment off your to-do list?

At lunch, you know you should eat, so you grab a plate of whatever they're serving in the dining hall today. Your friend already has a table, bless her, so you set your plate down and push your broccoli around while you wait for your stomach to settle. You take small sips of water in the meantime, listening to your friend talk about her day.

"Oh," she says, "are we still going to that concert tonight?"

Oh no. At some point in the great race to do all your homework last night, you'd forgotten to jot down your concert plans in your planner. A stupid mistake.

"Yes," you say, pretending everything is okay, but already this spontaneous change in today's plan has ensured that you won't be eating lunch today.

Your last class is a small one, a discussion-based class. You rarely work up the courage to speak, and that poses a problem for your participation grade. It isn't that you don't have anything to say—you read the class text and always find interesting points in the reading. You just feel an encroaching panic attack whenever you consider speaking up, and you're too nervous to inform your professor of your anxiety. Participation is only 15% of your grade, so you can still get a B even if she gives you a zero for not speaking up. You use this rationalization to convince yourself you don't have to talk to her.

You have three hours between your last class and the concert, so you decide to spend two hours studying and give yourself an hour for dinner with your friend. You're finally a little hungry, so you buy a bag of chips from the little store by the Student Union. You snack on these while you study, but the closer you get to the concert, the more anxiety you have.

The concert is at six, and by five o'clock you can barely breathe. You're very aware that it's just a concert, and you're probably going to enjoy it. You know your friend will be there, so you won't be alone. You know it isn't a big deal. But your anxiety doesn't care. You can rationalize about it all you want, but your chest will still ache and you'll still feel lightheaded.

When you meet your friend at the dining hall again, you realize your anxiety has been a little alleviated now that you're not alone to think about the concert. You're able to eat an entire ham sandwich and a salad. You and your friend finish up dinner and you're feeling better. So long as you're not stuck in your anticipation, you're fine.

At a quarter to six, you and your friend head to the building where the a capella group will be performing. As you expected, the concert is great and you enjoy yourself. It's over at 7:30, so your friend heads back to her apartment and you return to your residence hall. You shower and then sit down to do some more homework. Now that you're done for the day, you can eat, so you snack on a banana and a granola bar.

When you've done all your homework, you brush your teeth and set out tomorrow's outfit. You take another of your pills. You spend several minutes trying to make sure you haven't forgotten something important, then you get into bed. You don't have any extraordinary plans for tomorrow, but for some reason, as soon as your head hits the pillow, you feel that familiar turning in your stomach.

After 30 minutes of hopelessly lying completely still in an attempt to tire out your overactive brain, you sigh and get out of bed. You rifle through your dresser and grab your bottle of melatonin. You take one of the tiny tablets, then get back under your covers. Tomorrow will be easier.

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