P.M.

I’ve never been good at lying. I can’t make eye contact, sit still, or keep myself from sweating no matter the temperature. Yet for all the time I’ve spent practicing, I’ve never gotten any better at it. I’ll admit it; I’m a pathological liar. Or at least I used to be. Now I tell myself I’m living my authentic, unashamed truth, yet I still find the lies and the half-truths slipping out. It isn’t because of some devious, selfish reason that I find myself unable to tell the truth. It’s an act of self-preservation.

Let’s start with church. Ask anyone I spent a significant amount of time with throughout my childhood and adolescence and they would probably identify me with Moraga Valley Presbyterian Church. This wasn’t because I was a particularly vocal or dedicated church-goer; in fact, it was quite the opposite. I was incredibly shy and introverted, too wrapped up in social anxiety to make any waves, and too trapped in my family’s expectations to—Heaven forbid—skip church. Despite this, I participated in practically every aspect of the establishment. I taught Sunday School, I volunteered at Vacation Bible School, I spent my spring breaks on service trips in Tijuana, and at one point, I was spending four days a week at church. My biggest contribution, however, was my role in the youth group worship band. This role was what defined me as the poster child of MVPC. I had been singing in the band from sixth grade until senior year, so every youth group attendee, both regular and visitor, was familiar with me. Whether I liked it or not, I was the face of the church. This role placed a huge burden on my young shoulders, though I wasn’t acutely aware of it until later.

After years of genuine dedication to the church, my willingness to participate in it began to dwindle so slowly that I was hardly able to recognize it, let alone understand where it came from. It started when I refused to participate in confirmation. It was a process expected of all teenagers at MVPC during their sophomore year of high school, and consisted simply of a few classes and a ceremony. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I decided to rebel. Though my parents pushed and prodded, I would not give in. The process seemed arbitrary to me, and I believed that if I didn’t truly feel called to participate in it, then it wouldn’t be genuine in the first place. This small act of rebellion was the first of many. It might be feigning sick to avoid the morning service, or silently mouthing the words to hymns rather than singing along. It wasn’t until my last year of high school that all of these seemingly meaningless acts made sense. 

I was never very good at making friends; the social anxiety made sure of that. So when I developed a new friendship with Amanda at the start of my senior year, I was over the moon. We did everything together. We hung out every day after school, we belted show tunes in our cars, and we had sleepovers practically every weekend. Amanda was like the missing piece to my puzzle. I had never been happier. Soon we were holding hands as we walked to class, leaving pecks on each other’s cheeks, and hugging a second or two longer than usual. You can probably see where this is going. And you’d be right. I, the poster face of Moraga Valley Presbyterian Church, had fallen in love with my best friend. And let me be very clear: I was absolutely terrified. So terrified, in fact, that I didn’t put words to my feelings for another six months in fear that I would ruin everything. And so, for those six months, I began to lie. It began with the occasional fib when my parents asked me where I was going so they wouldn’t become suspicious that I was spending so much time with Amanda. Gradually I came up with excuses for my foul moods, buried love notes deep in my drawers, and experimented with various methods of covering hickies. 

Eventually, even my lies could not obscure the truth. My parents began to ask more questions. They wanted to know if I saw Amanda as more than a friend. They wanted to know why I spent so much time crying. They wanted to know why my eyes were sunken and my cheekbones protruding, a visible sign of the eating disorder I had fallen victim to in an attempt to control the chaos around me. Finally, they began to ask if I was gay. The question rocked me, and my response was so defensive they might as well have asked if I’d murdered someone. “ABSOLUTELY NOT” was my answer, and I thought that if I repeated it enough, maybe they would stop asking. But they didn’t, and they weren’t the only ones with questions. Amanda and I both struggled with a vast array of mental health issues. One of the most severe was Amanda’s propensity to self-harm. I recognized the signs instantly, but it wasn’t until one night at youth group when I gently confronted her about them. This set her emotions in a tailspin, and I had to take her outside to calm her down. For the next few months, triggered by the setting, this instance would recur and I would be forced to take her outside by the hand and hold her while she cried or shook or rocked catatonically. I thought nothing of it; people came and went during the sermon all the time. But it was more conspicuous than I had thought. 

One day, the youth pastor sent me a text requesting a meeting. I told myself that he wanted to discuss my role as a team leader for our last service trip in a few weeks, but deep down I knew the true reason. I entered his office with every intention to lie, as I had been doing for the last six months. But when he asked the question, the floodgates opened. He sat and listened as I poured out my heart, choking on sobs and the web of lies I’d constructed, pleading with him that he could do whatever he wanted, just please don’t tell my parents. He was silent for a moment when I finished, then handed me a tissue, told me that he loved me and so did our Holy Father, and assured me that my secret was safe with him, no matter how many people continued asking him. 

After that meeting, I felt the carefully constructed walls concealing my secret life began to crumble. Whispers of our relationship spread insidiously through the church. By chance, this period coincided with a major decision. MVPC’s denomination, the Presbyterian Church of the U.S.A., announced a resolution to allow same-sex marriages within their churches. Any relief I may have felt was instantly quashed by my own congregation; they voted to switch denominations. Specifically, to join the Evangelical Presbyterian Church, which expressly forbade such unions. The pastors and deacons were insistent that the decisions were unrelated, but it was a weak excuse. The congregation was happy to settle for their explanations, though they came at a great cost. To leave the PCUSA meant buying out their land—for over one million dollars. So what did they do? They raised it, of course. So there I was, deep in the mire of my own deceit, and unable to protest as I watched the congregation I had once considered family campaign for weeks on end and raise an obscene amount of money to escape from people like me. I watched the youth pastor that had kept my secret move out of state. I watched my small group leader forced out of the church by her peers because she accepted people like me. As I left for college, I watched a younger lesbian couple barred from acting as team leaders on the very service trip I had just completed. 

Since then, my whole life has changed. I dated Amanda until she broke my heart. I came out to my family, and then to the world. I transformed into a young adult, shedding many of my old anxieties. I stopped living a lie. But I can’t escape my past. I sometimes find myself dropping the “girl” part of “girlfriend” in casual conversation. I force a smile when my dad drags me back to MVPC on holidays, pretending I don’t still feel the immense fear and betrayal deep in my gut. I lock myself in the bathroom and cry at Bible study, which I still try and go to every once in a while, before pretending to be sick. Lying is a part of my life. The difference is that now I hold onto hope that the world will continue changing for the better, and know that one day I will only speak the truth.