Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Amy Matayo

  But that wasn’t the worst part.

  The worst part was the way it made me feel.

  For the first time in the history of my twenty-nine years of living…

  I saw clearly what I’d done to Presley. I no longer blamed her for never wanting to see me again. As it was, I barely wanted to see myself.

  When the weight of reality crashed over me, I bent over the toilet and threw up.

  I stayed that way for an hour, and then made my way to my laptop. Reaching for my lighter, I flicked it on and opened the last website. Click. Click. Click. They both worked in nervous tandem while I read through every article I could find.

  I stayed there all night.

  My lighter burned out at the same time I did.

  Presley

  One year later

  Beware of the woman who cuts her hair, because she’s about to change her life. I read that quote online last week and promptly made an appointment with my stylist. The plan was to throw caution to the wind and chop it all off—big changes call for dramatic statements, you know. In the end, I cut off a mere inch, but I did add a few blond highlights. So there. I’m practically a new woman. Fight me on that if you want to.

  Big changes. Huge.

  I sold the newspaper.

  All that fighting and clawing and arguing for it, and in the end Micah was right. It was a losing cause, a lost battle. No one in my town wanted to read the old-fashioned way it seemed. A tragedy on all counts because it plainly means all the residents of Georgia and its surrounding states are filled with idiots who prefer to get their news from dumbed-down 140-character tweets than read whole articles and form their own opinions. Seems it’s a nation-wide epidemic, a horde mentality, but okay. Be stupid. Whatever.

  I sold it to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I once believed that I would never give it up, but when they wanted to buy the rights and absorb my little newspaper into their much larger company, I saw my chance. I let it go, the final chapter in my transformation. All ties to the past, now severed. What they do with the newspaper is their decision, no longer mine to worry about.

  The worst part about it was in the end, Micah was right about me. I didn’t buy the paper because of a deep love of words or even nostalgia. I bought it because of an unexplainable need to rescue things. First him, then small animals, then an entire dying industry.

  Speaking of small animals, yesterday I gave my cat away to an elderly woman who lives across the street. I dropped off all Minka’s things last night—her food, her bed, her litter box—and when I checked on her this morning, both mother and cat seemed happy. Exactly the way it should be. It’s hard to fully care for something when you find yourself resenting it. Small children…innocent pets…both deserve better. Maybe someday I’ll get a dog. When I’m ready, but not before.

  I still don’t entirely understand the root of my need to repair the broken—especially when I’m still a little broken myself—but it’s there. I read once that comedians work so hard at being funny because deep inside they’re unhappy and don’t want anyone to feel the way they feel. Misery doesn’t always love company; sometimes all it wants is to heal itself by healing others.

  I’ve spent a lot of time alone in the past year. Getting to know myself. My dreams. My goals. My shortcomings. The cracks are filling themselves now. The best news is, most of the ones left belong only to me.

  I still miss Micah. Most days I hardly go five minutes without thinking of him. The only thing that’s changed is my reaction. What once caused a twisting knife-like pain in the center of my chest now presents itself as a dull ache and a longing for lost times. What might have been is an excruciating question when you know you’ll likely never get an answer.

  It took me nearly two years to reach some sort of livable peace with it, but I’ve managed to jump into this new life with both feet. The water is warm and I’m a bit allergic to chlorine, but I’m swimming around anyway. I might get a small rash, but I doubt I’ll die from the exposure.

  There is good news, though; I’m actually learning to like myself. Sometimes I’m upset that I didn’t start sooner, but better late than never, I suppose. Some people go their whole lives without giving themselves a chance. People like my mom. Micah’s dad. Micah. These days, he’s the only one my heart breaks for. He’s such a great guy, if he would just allow himself to see it. As for the other two, time and my own desire made it too late for them. Some things you walk away from and never look back. That is one of them. And so is my former life.

  Time to go.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder and reach for my keys, then glance around my tiny apartment one last time. It’s empty except for one last box. The electricity is shut off. The lack of air conditioning makes it a bit stale and stuffy, but it houses so many of my memories. I look toward the kitchen and see newspapers spread across an old oak table that I sold last week. I glance at my open bedroom door and remember the photo of Micah on my bedside table. I stare at the front door and think of all the times he showed up unannounced—sometimes with pizza, sometimes alone, often with an apology.

  All of my memories involve him. He will forever cloud my mind; he is gravity and unless something drastic happens, I will forever be fighting against his pull. I’ve come to terms with that because I’ve had to. I’ve dated a few men since I last saw him—none of them ever turned serious. I’m starting to doubt any ever will. When you give your heart away at eleven years old, you barely remember what it was like to own it at all. It makes life a little more painful and a lot more trouble, but finally I have a plan.

  I’m moving to Pennsylvania. All my belongings are halfway to Philadelphia by now, or should be if the moving company works according to schedule. The Philadelphia Tribune is my new boss, copy editor for the lifestyle section my official title. Turns out not all newsprint media is dying, just most of the small-town variety, though I still plan to bring back my little corner of it someday. I’m a dreamer at heart, my love for it is as strong as it’s ever been, but until I come out the other side of the many life changes I plan to make, I’m looking for a sure thing. The Philadelphia Tribune is a sure thing, at least for the foreseeable future. For a while anyway, I’m not looking to take care of my job.

  It’s time for my job to take care of me.

  And while it’s paying the bills, I’m thinking about writing a book. A novel. Maybe a romance about two battered kids who lived rough lives with bad parents, broke apart, and came together in the end. If real life can’t have a happy ending, maybe I’ll write a fictional one in its place. Play it out like it should have happened…if ‘what might have been’ were to actually come true. The end of this world doesn’t have to be the end of the next.

  As I said, I’m dreamer through and through.

  I close the door. On the apartment. On the memories. On everything about my old life. Two years is a long time to wait to finally make the transition, but I’m making it once and for all.

  I open the car door and attempt to shove the box inside. The back seat is already crowded, crammed with blankets and two suitcases and my laptop case and a bag full of snacks because the drive to Philadelphia is a long one and a girl’s got to eat. The box falls, scattering random contents all over my parking space. Nothing is important—just the leftover remnants of pens, paper clips, old shampoo bottles, and folded papers I found around the apartment and tossed inside in an effort to pack faster. Now I’m cursing myself for not setting fire to the whole thing when I had the chance.

  I set the box upright and begin throwing things inside, stretching underneath the car for a paper stuck behind my back tire, sandwich bag that slid on top of an oil spot. I have both in my hand and twist around toward the box when the paper unfolds.

  I suck in a breath at the header across the top.

  The paper belongs to Micah. His signature is scrawled across the bottom in the sloppy way I remember, my named typed in neat black ink toward the middle of the page. The paper is old and slightly yellowed,
from our college days, no doubt making its way from apartment to apartment in other boxes just like this one. Why have I never seen it before? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

  Two decades of life flash in front of me in rapid succession, the picture suddenly altered.

  What I see changes everything.

  Micah

  Time passes whether we pass with it or not. A basic concept, I’m aware. But it’s not so basic to a guy who’s lived half his life running after anything he thought might give him validation, but then finding out later that all that running was futile. It is possible to run backwards, you know. I’d been running all right, but I never actually moved anywhere, spending all my time running back to the start. Running back to my childhood. Running back to my dad in a pathetic game of tag. Tap him on the shoulder. See Dad? Now I’m doing a good thing. Slap him on the knee. See dad? Now you can be proud of me. Grab the flag out of his back pocket. See dad? Now maybe you could love me.

  See Dad?

  See Dad?

  See Dad?

  The problem it took me too many years to realize is this: My dad was never actually watching. He wasn’t invested in the game like I was. He wasn’t invested in me like he should have been.

  Nor, I realize now after two years of living outside of his imposing shadow, did he deserve to be. We’re given gifts in life. Most people—smart people—take the gift for what it’s worth and offer an appreciative thank you. Some people—foolish ones—throw them back in the face of the giver. God gave my dad a gift—me. That’s right, I’m a gift from God and I freaking know that now. I own it. I’m proud of it. The big guy in the sky made me and handed me to some woman who turned her back on me and some guy who didn’t give a crap one way or another. That wasn’t God’s fault and it sure as heck wasn’t mine.

  I was a gift. My dad was a thankless idiot. Harsh, and maybe God wouldn’t approve of my attitude. But deep down, I kinda think He agrees with me.

  After all, technically He made Hitler and that guy was an idiot too.

  The other problem is this: It took me losing the only person who had been invested in me to see I already had everything I needed. Clichés are around for a reason, you know. Because they’re common; because they’re a universal truth. We always want what we can’t have, and we’re never interested in what’s right in front of us. I wanted more. I wanted perfect and beautiful and picturesque and the whole package—on the outside anyway. The outside was what mattered to me, because if the picture looked pretty, maybe my dad would finally be proud. Jealous, even. That’s what I wanted, for my father to be jealous. Isn’t envy the ultimate goal? If people envy us, it’s because they want to be us. I wanted my father to envy me. Then and only then, would I have won the game.

  How pathetic is it to be playing a game with your own father?

  Even more, how pathetic is it to chase away the one actual perfect person in your life?

  I had Presley, but I threw her way. In the end, I lost my own pitiful game. Worse, it took me until only two months ago to know it once and for all. Presley was perfect…for me she was perfect. And now I’ve certainly lost my chance.

  She sold the newspaper. I’ve kept up with her from a distance, regularly checking social media for any signs of life either on her page or any one of our mutual acquaintances. Including Nick, the guy she dated for a minute after she walked out of my life. In January, he posted a picture with her and his new fiancé out at a restaurant. The women sat close and smiled like regular best friends. Presley makes that easy; she’s a great one. They were celebrating the sale of the paper and Presley’s impending move, though there was no mention of the location.

  She’s gone. The idea still has my heart in a vice grip currently squeezing me to death. It took eighteen months to wake me up. Eighteen months to clear the fog that’s lived inside my mind for three decades. It isn’t completely gone, but it has lifted. It has allowed me to see things for what they are. I’m doing everything I can to make it stay away.

  Including seeing the woman sitting in front of me on a regular basis.

  She’s just asked me a question, and I have no idea how to answer it. I tell her so.

  “Then let me phrase it another way. When we’re younger, we take on the things people say to us—especially our parents, uncles, grandparents, anyone who we perceive as in charge—as gospel. If your mother tells you that you can save the world, you believe it because why would she lie? Conversely, if a father tells you that you’re worthless, then you must be. Because why would he lie? Adults know everything, especially parents. But they don’t, Micah. Some people see parenting as a form of control, they see dominating their children as a form of superiority when actually it’s abuse.” My therapist scribbles something in her notebook and looks up at me again. “Are you starting to see that’s exactly what was done to you?”

  I nod, because I am starting to see it. She’s also helping me understand that even though I was mistreated for the first eighteen years of my life, the effects can be undone. Not overnight. You can’t untangle the world’s largest ball of twine in a matter of minutes. What took years to create would likely take twice as long to destroy, and even then the string will likely be bent and twisted in parts. I will probably be knotted in places for the rest of my life. But I’m working on breaking free. I’ve been coming here for two months now. I have another counselor appointment already set up for next week in my new city. The man came highly recommended by my current doctor, and I plan to never miss an appointment.

  Tomorrow I’m moving to New York. I was offered a job at Good Day New York, and I took it on the spot. I’ll have one of the most coveted anchor positions in our industry and a desk with a view and enough clout for a room full of ambitious young newscasters to split among themselves and still have spillover. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?

  None of that means a thing to me anymore. It won’t until I get myself back…until I figure out how to like me again. Or at all. Deep down, I’m not sure I ever have. I liked how I saw myself through Presley’s eyes, through other women’s eyes. It’s way past time to start looking through my own. Until I can stare in the mirror and not be repulsed, I’ll stay in counseling. As for the rest of my life, I’ll figure it out as I go. Sometimes I let myself hope my future will make a way for me and Presley. All the other times I know it’s a dream with no happy ending.

  I used to think she wasn’t enough for me. Lies. All lies I told myself in an effort to feel better. Turns out in that area, I was more like my father than I thought. Now I know I wasn’t enough for her, something he never would have admitted to anyone. The loss feels like a barbed ball sitting to the left of my lungs. Breathe too deeply and I get cut. Move too quickly and the bleeding starts. Everywhere I turn, I see her face in my mind. Every day I pray the vision will fade. Maybe someday it will.

  More than likely it won’t.

  All I know is right now I have a key to an apartment that no longer belongs to me, and new owners waiting for me to hand it off. I stand up, our time over. I’m both sad and looking forward to the next chapter. One foot in front of the other, that’s my new mantra. Keep walking straight ahead and try real hard not to look back, that’s the common component of people who grow.

  Dr. Hart stands and holds out her hand. I shake it, grateful.

  “You’re going to make it, Micah. I have no doubt. Keep up the counseling, keep talking through your issues, and someday they’ll be firmly behind you.”

  “I will. I just hope I don’t come up with new ones.”

  She laughs. “You will. Probably lots of them. But those issues will be your own and made by you. That’s the goal, to get rid of the issues that weren’t yours to own in the first place.”

  “Goodbye Dr. Hart. If I’m ever back in the area, I’ll make an appointment.”

  “Goodbye Micah. Honestly, I hope that doesn’t happen. I hope you leave this place and never look back.”

  I smile. I don’t tell her that’s the plan.

 
; I walk out the front door and begin the process of putting the plan in motion.

  Micah

  Two Years Later

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Leven?”

  I blink, then look up to see Jonah—our twenty-one-year-old straight-out-of-college new hire at the station—waiting for something. He looks over his shoulder at the girl who followed him into my office, then back at me like the answer is obvious. No answer is ever obvious when you aren’t aware of the question. Still, I wing it like the professional I am.

  On the streets below us, taxis blare horns at each other and the occasional profanity drifts up from the streets. The smell of sausage from the vendor on the corner drifts up from the vents, or maybe that’s just my imagination. It’s Thursday morning, and I’m counting the seconds until I can head down to buy one. Today is the one day of the week I allow myself one—along with a pretzel with cheese sauce because I’m a man and who can resist those?—both a veritable heart attack waiting to happen. I don’t care. I run every day after work and spend four days a week at the gym. If I want vendor food on Thursdays—or Fridays or Saturdays for that matter—I’ll eat it.

  But right now I’m distracted. I glance at my laptop again.

  “Yeah, sorry. Just leave the talking points on my desk and I’ll take a look at them in a minute.” I pick up a pen and pretend to write something in my planner, as though I have an important appointment or something. In reality, I have notes to review and personal plans to make. It’s been a long day already, and the sun’s only been up for a short time.