One of my underlying communication challenges has been how to produce genuine meaning and connection, when my role models excel in speaking out of both sides of their mouths.

If you see recordings of people in interviews, the higher the stakes rise the more likely you are to see someone glance to the side as the other is speaking, and the speaker takes the chance to lick their lips.

Today I'm examining the reasons people lie, how this has seeped through our social dialogues, and how honesty (genuity) can be seen as a bridge of solidarity to people who are lower-confidence, or less secure, than the speaker.

Lies I've Heard

"Get used to your new life ...", she said over a luxurious dinner in a luxurious home in San Francisco's Haight Ashbury neighborhood. Perhaps this was a promise aimed to put me at ease, although she spoke in the airs of a domme, denying me the space to make any decision about this life.

My head had already been spinning; nothing about this moment corresponded to any plans of mine. My recent months of homelessness made the surrounding comforts seem choking and hostile; though I'm sure this emotion had been amplified by her searching gaze, which offered me no escape.

I'm sure she'd been proud of the home she'd arranged, and the dinner she'd prepared, and I'm sorry to say that I'd had nothing to be proud of, in that moment. Recent recognition of my queer gender had broken my family bonds, pushed me through long periods of housing and unemployment insecurity, and conditioned a dependency on cannabis to quell anxiety. The anxiety, of course, had an emotional basis in a plague of fear for the consequences of dishonest help.

I couldn't see a place for me in the 'new life' she proposed, and though she saw my discomfort, displacement, and missing purpose - these were too challenging for us to dig into after the years gone by. Both of us chose to lie, in ignoring these inadequacies.

Had we the assurance of months ahead to go through our uniquely damaged psyches, I'd be able to recognize that this scene, the dinner table and large portions, was one I recognized from each day of my childhood. She'd been appraising my capacity for family, and her searching gaze that I'd become so desparate to hide from began to confuse my memories from childhood, where I never had a voice at the table, with the recent panic attack I experienced at the same table, when my parents began seizing my healthcare decisions from me, beginning with the choice of counselor.

The counselor they chose through CatholicTherapists.com I handled with the same cold, sharp gaze that carried me through my high-school breakup with the Catholic church to begin with. See, I'm good at finding lies and attacks hidden among genuine concern.

Lies I've Spoken

In high school, I sat in the catholic-school cafeteria across from the monsignor of my church, who had until now been employing me as a recepitionist in the rectory. He'd been the biggest role model in the community, of course, and though he used any authority he could to undermine my decision, I'd already persuaded my mind of the senseless harms that religion causes; how then could he use a spiritual authority to appeal?

I sat through the discussion with a cold mix of shrugs and apathy, refusing any motion to change my mind or share my reasons, until he found he had no purchase on my mind or soul; none that could dissuade the silent sociology that a queer child practices daily for survival.

In 2017, I applied the same cold, reactionless inertia to the therapist in Philadelphia. This man had gained his respect by learning the rulebook, keeping problems at bay, and using any remaining chances to aggressively reshape the minds that came to him for help. He had an ugly demeanor and composure, and I know that ugly people often succeed by hiding behind an affront.

The therapist, Peter, thrilled in applying labels to me, explaining how unfathomable he found me, in a manner that now reminds me of seduction. When he had chances to, he attacked the appearances of trans women, objectifying and genericizing. I no longer rely on, or place confidence in, any psycho-therapy; after years of absence from the scene, I can say that the practice of professional counseling seems to enable many forms of sexual policing, meanwhile robbing sexual relationships of their emotional confidence through the promotion of a higher authority, in the eyes of law.

And so in 2019, I became too anxious and she too eager; the difference a reliable home can cause. She'd been going to therapy, and I'd been seeking someone who could keep me out of therapy for good. She laid on the couch, closed her eyes, and when I came to sit nearby on the floor, placing my hand on her leg, she shrugged me aside. I asked for a dance, and we chose an album for her record player. We slept on either side of her bed in silence until morning, candle burning beside the bedside potted plant.