The Problem With The Truth

It's funny how at the worst times in your life, when your heart and soul are failing you, your brain kicks into overdrive. It's at times like these that you can realize some neat things about yourself. In my case, this past winter was when I finally said out loud that "I'm a fairly perceptive gal." Counsellor Lindsay agreed and then I stopped seeing her shortly after. It wasn't any sort of insult to her personally or professionally - I thought she was lovely. I just realized that I didn't really need her anymore because I had been figuring things out by myself the entire time anyway. I knew the truth all by myself.

But to every silver lining, there's a shadow - because otherwise the silver wouldn't really stand out you see (or I suppose, there's the existence of the cloud in general that you have to contend with). The problem with being perceptive is that you're usually right, even when you don't want to be. So even though you want desperately to put aside logic and truth and the simple obviousness of it all to believe the stories that are being told, it can be very, very difficult. And sometimes, you can't do it.

The overtly optimistic, sometimes silly and frequently foolish idealism is still in me somewhere (I think it's taking an extended nap) so I'm not completely cynical just yet. But I do remember thinking that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy were all made up characters at the tender age of seven. I thought that make believe games were stupid - just because you run around the field during recess does not make you Batman or Robin or Catwoman. Plus, there were at least three Batmans and every girl was Catwoman. I rolled my eyes at superstitions. (What a childhood, eh?)

But even though I didn't necessarily 'believe' in these things did not stop me from celebrating them. Christmas was my favourite time of the year. When I woke up to a big box at the foot of my bed, I thought to myself that Santa saw I had been a good girl - even though I knew inside my parents bought me that Barbie kitchen. I went on Easter egg hunts and instead of getting money for the teeth that had fallen out, I did as my grandmother told me: throw the top teeth down the sewer to make them grow straight down and throw the bottom teeth onto the roof to make them grow straight up. I lifted my feet in the car when we drove over railway tracks and held my breath when we passed a cemetery. Sometimes I played the games at recess. I knew all these things were silly, but a part of me didn't want to let go of them. I half knew them to be silly, half hoped that they weren't.

At twenty-one now, half of me knows the simple truth about things, but the other half wants the complication, the messiness and the wondering. I want to hear the stories, to believe in something else. Most of me hopes that there's something more than just the truth. Sometimes the truth hurts, sometimes it's boring. Sometimes the truth isn't good enough.
5:07 pm